


Somebody To Love

by kathkin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cupid Jaskier, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23576674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: This was far from the first time someone had wanted Geralt. This wasn’t the first time it was someone Geralt wanted back. And this time, it was good. It would be a good match. But his gut said no. A good match wasn’t enough. Geralt deserved –neededbetter than that. He deserved glorious – passionate –spectacularlove. That was what he wanted, for Geralt.Jaskier is a Cupid, an immortal semi-divine entity or an anthropomorphic personification of an emotional experience (depending on who you ask). He set out to find Geralt someone he could fall in love with. He wasn't counting on falling in love for himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 305
Kudos: 2401





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Inspired wholly by [this gif](https://joeybateydaily.tumblr.com/post/190826568093/sending-you-a-little-bit-of-love) so uh thank you to joeybateydaily on tumblr for making a gif so nice it made me write 24,000 words...
> 
> 2) See also [my tumblr post](https://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/611154541182844928/altalemur-penny-anna-penny-anna) about cupid!Jaskier & Yennefer.
> 
> 3) Some worldbuilding borrowed from/inspired by [Good Omens](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Good_Omens).
> 
> 4) Do I need to tell you where the title is from... [you know where the title is from](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kijpcUv-b8M).
> 
> 5) This fic is complete and will update weekly-ish!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The man was lonely – had been lonely for so long that it no longer registered, that he had accepted it as his natural state. But still the man ached with it._

He had business, in Posada. The kind of simple, breezy business he never got tired of. A word in the ear of a local farm boy, to bring him to the tavern on the right afternoon. A talk with the landlord’s shy daughter. A touch of his magic, a touch of _love_ , at the right moment.

He left them making gooey eyes at each other over the bar, a swell of warm, comfortable satisfaction in his chest, and took up his lute.

He’d been a musician before, several times over. But the lute was new to him, and he was out of practice with string instruments. It was always a thrill, starting something new – a new profession. A new name. A new face. Blundering through unfamiliar territory in a delightful and thoroughly human fashion.

The world was bright and exciting and full of new experiences, and he _loved_ it.

It wasn’t till after his performance came to its abrupt conclusion that he noticed the man.

The bar was a tapestry of emotions, the air humming with feelings – irritation, anger, contentment, anxiety, lust. All of it whirling around, whizzing back and forth as people conversed and laughed and connected.

And there in the corner, a man sitting by himself, in his own quiet, tense cloud of feelings. Pensive, and calm, and grim, and radiating loneliness.

He knew loneliness. It was cold and set his teeth on edge and he could feel it miles away. It was his opposite and it drew him in like a lodestone, his feet carrying him across the bar, towards the man.

The man was lonely – had been lonely for so long that it no longer registered, that he had accepted it as his natural state. But still the man ached with it. 

It made his chest tight, and his breath catch, that loneliness. He wanted to make it better – wanted to complete him, to make him happy and whole, wanted to see him _loved_. He wanted to look at that man and know he’d never see him lonely again.

The man was alone, and he was beautiful. Leaning against a wooden pillar he studied the man’s profile, the line of his jaw, his golden eyes. It amazed him, sometimes, that humans could be so beautiful and yet still be lonely; _really?_ he thought. _No-one’s ever wanted him, to keep forever?_

He thought, _I’m going to do it. I am going to find your soulmate._

Aloud, he said, “I like the way you sit in the corner and brood.”

*

Alright, so the man was a witcher. That complicated things. But he wasn’t afraid of a challenge.

He _was_ afraid of getting his fragile human body killed – very afraid, as it happened, for a number of reasons, not least of which was the fact that the impermanence of his death wouldn’t stop it hurting – and he was supposed to be playing safe, after what had happened to his last body, but it was a risk he was prepared to take.

“I travel alone,” said Geralt. He was making camp for the evening, out in the wilderness, surrounded by the singing of insects.

“Good. Good!” He perched on a conveniently flat rock. “So do I. We can travel alone together.”

Geralt shot him a look as if to say, _you’re missing the point_. But he was a touch amused. Jaskier could feel it, a bright spot amidst his miserable cloud. 

“Have you always travelled alone?” he said. “There hasn’t ever been – anyone else?”

“Witchers travel alone,” said Geralt, which didn’t answer his question.

“Must be a bit lonely,” he said. An understatement if ever there was one.

“I have Roach,” said Geralt.

“Roach is a horse.”

Geralt grunted.

With a sigh, he took his lute from its case and setting it on his lap began to pluck out some chords. “Maybe I’ll write a beautiful ballad,” he said. “A love story about you. And your horse.”

 _That_ amused Geralt as well, though he gave no outward sign of it.

“Where to next, then?” he said. “I take it we aren’t going back to Posada any time soon.”

They were close enough that he could still feel the young lovers in the tavern, if he stretched his mind.

Geralt dumped a saddlebag on the ground. “Look, bard,” he said, and breaking off fixed him with a glower and said, “what do I call you?”

That put him on the spot, a bit. He hadn’t decided on a name for this body yet. He’d been tossing a few around, trying on a new one for each town. But here he was, planning on committing at least a few months to Geralt – for this wasn’t going to be a quick job – and he was going to have to settle on a name quick or risk looking _very_ peculiar.

“Jaskier,” he said, blurting out the first of the names he’d been batting about to come to mind.

“Jaskier,” Geralt echoed. “There’s no _we_. You’ve had your fun. Go home.”

“What makes you think I have a home?” said Jaskier. He was Jaskier now, he supposed. He was committed. “And more to the point, what makes you think I’m having fun.” Geralt grunted. “Look, I’m travelling, you’re travelling – I don’t see why our paths can’t align for a little while.”

Looking away Geralt said, “you don’t want to be on my path.”

*

Alright, so Geralt’s being a witcher meant that a lot of the populace were scared of or repulsed by him. And alright, so Geralt didn’t like to talk to people, or be around people at all, if he could avoid it. So Geralt didn’t bathe very often.

Jaskier was _not_ afraid of a challenge. If there was one fixture across all the many lives he’d lived – besides extraordinary good looks and artistic talent – it was that he wasn’t afraid of a challenge.

And he was making progress. Half a year of travelling together, on and off, and Geralt had begun to tolerate his presence. Admittedly he’d expected that after half a year he’d be a bit further on than that, but he could be patient. It wasn’t like he was getting any older.

“Tell the innkeeper I’ve a horse stabled,” said Geralt.

“Tell him yourself,” said Jaskier.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, and giving Roach a last pat on the neck he left the stables.

“Hey – Geralt!” said Jaskier, hastening after him. In spite of tolerating his presence now, Geralt still had a difficult habit of walking away without warning or explanation. “Where are you _going_? The inn’s back that way.” He waved a hand vaguely at the inn, its golden windows, voices and laughter spilling from within.

“I’m not going to the inn,” said Geralt.

“Then where are you going?” said Jaskier, keeping pace with him, which was easier said than done. Geralt didn’t answer. “I thought we were done with witcher business for the night?”

“I’m going to the whorehouse,” said Geralt.

“Oh,” said Jaskier. “Oh – I see.” He mulled it over. Then he darted out in front of Geralt, stopping him in his tracks. “Now, hear me out,” he said, clapping his hands together.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, an unspoken _get the fuck out of my way_ hanging off his name as clear as a bell.

“It hasn’t escaped my notice, in the many months we’ve known each other, that whenever you’ve sought the company of another it’s been of the – paid variety,” said Jaskier. Geralt was looking askance, palpably frustrated even to one who didn’t have Jaskier’s acute perception, but he persisted. “And far be it from me to judge your choices – and, and I am not judging them, not at all – I’ve no doubt that there are any number of lovely ladies in the world who’d enjoy your company without being compensated for their time.”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“Or handsome gentlemen!” said Jaskier. “If your tastes happen to run that way.”

Geralt took a step closer to him, looming in the darkened street. “Which way my tastes run is none of your fucking business, bard.”

Which meant, if Jaskier wasn’t very much mistaken, that they _did_ run to handsome gentlemen, at least some of the time. “Of course!” he said. “Of course it isn’t. I just don’t like to think that _you_ think you have to pay for company of a loving nature, because you are very easy on the eyes, if you don’t mind my saying so –”

“I do,” said Geralt.

“And then there are your many acts of heroism, which any number of people I’m sure would find attractive,” said Jaskier. “And some people prefer a partner who isn’t a big talker.”

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, “what are you getting at?”

His mood had shifted from frustration to irritation, tinged with curiosity. Jaskier took that as a good sign, and soldiered bravely on. “I’m just saying,” he said, “there’s sure to be _someone_ out there who’d fall madly in love with you, and if only you’d go out and meet people now and then rather than lurking in the wilderness and visiting whorehouses, you might just find them.”

“Go back to the inn, Jaskier,” said Geralt.

“Hear me out,” said Jaskier.

“I don’t want anyone falling in love with me,” said Geralt. “I just want a decent fuck before dawn.”

“Everybody wants to be loved,” said Jaskier. Geralt certainly did. He wouldn’t be so lonely, if he truly didn’t want someone to love him.

“I don’t,” said Geralt.

“But –”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” said Geralt, and pushing past Jaskier he strode away along the street.

“Alright,” Jaskier called after him. “We’ll finish this conversation later!”

Geralt called back, “we won’t.”

*

It took well over a year for Eros to notice what he was up to.

He was standing at the edge of their campsite, feeling the late evening breeze, picking at his hair. Geralt had grunted at him to watch Roach before stomping off into the trees on some pursuit of his own. Probably he ought to be watching Roach, but the night was so peaceful that it didn’t seem worth it. So instead he stood with his back to the campsite, watching the stars come out.

Then as ever with no warning at all, Eros spoke to him, out of the starlight and the breeze and the movements of the grass and the bark of the trees. _Julian, what are you doing?_

“What am I doing?” said Jaskier blithely. “Well, at the present moment I’d say I’m enjoying this beautiful evening.”

 _With the witcher. What are you doing with the witcher?_ said Eros, in that particular tone which conveyed _I am many, many thousands of years old and accordingly I have infinite patience and yet you, somehow, are wearing it thin._

Stretching his arms up towards the heavens Jaskier said, “I’m finding him somebody to love. Isn’t that what we do?”

_Not witchers, Julian._

“Why not?” said Jaskier. “Don’t witchers deserve love, just like everybody else in the world? Don’t they deserve to be cherished and adored?”

The leaves on the trees rustled. The stars twinkled. _You have better things to do than waste time on lost causes._

“I’m not wasting time,” said Jaskier. “I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your infinite notice that I’ve kept on with my usual work. Hmm? Did you see that job I did in Temeria? Very nice. They’ll be together forever.”

_It was competent._

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Jaskier. “And I _will_ find someone for the witcher. Mark my words.”

There was a protracted silence, during which the starlight was just starlight and the breeze just a dying breeze. It was not, he told himself, as if they could really argue. He _had_ kept on with his usual work. He wasn’t doing any harm.

 _If you lose another body this century you’re being recalled,_ said Eros.

“Yes, yes, I _know_ ,” said Jaskier, flapping his hand. “I’m being _very_ careful with this one. Not a scratch on it,” he lied.

_At least five centuries this time._

Now _there_ was a grim thought. Think of all the fun and music and love he’d miss in five centuries on the other side. Geralt would probably be – gone, by the time he wheedled his way back.

“I’ll take excellent care of this body,” he said. “No repeats of last time. I solemnly swear it.”

 _You’d better_. In a blink of an eye Eros was gone. The breeze died away.

He took a deep breath of night air and opted to look on the bright side, that being that he could now carry on his work with Geralt with impunity.

“Who are you talking to?” said the man himself.

Starting, Jaskier spun on the spot. “Myself,” he said, smiling sunnily.

“Hm,” said Geralt. He was crouching on the ground, putting a fire together.

How much of the conversation he’d heard Jaskier wasn’t sure. None of what Eros had said, of course. Geralt may have keener senses than any human, but some things were beyond physical hearing.

“When I say watch Roach, I mean it.”

“I was watching her,” said Jaskier.

“Daydreaming,” Geralt grunted.

“Absolutely not,” said Jaskier. “The very idea. I was just – composing a song,” he said, which was as good a cover for oddities of speech as any.

“About what?” said Geralt.

Looking up at the stars, Jaskier said, “communing with the universe.”

*

It was funny, the way after so much time there were still new experiences to be found in the world. He’d seen a manticore before – up close and from afar – but trying to tease manticore spines out of a person’s body, _that_ was a new one on him.

Geralt sat facing away from him, the firelight playing golden on his skin. He didn’t make a sound as Jaskier tugged the spines, one by one, from his shoulder, but his breath caught. Jaskier could feel the tension in the muscles of his shoulders.

He took a hold of an especially long spine and tugged.

“Ow!” said Geralt. “Mind the barbs.”

“I’m minding them,” said Jaskier. He tugged out another of the big spines and Geralt hissed. But though this was hurting him, more so than anything he was irritated. Irritated, Jaskier thought, because he wanted it to be over, and perhaps because he thought Jaskier wasn’t doing a good enough job. “It doesn’t hurt that much,” he said, “you big baby.”

Twisting around Geralt shot him a furious look over his shoulder, as if to say, _I just fought a manticore and I have eight-inch spines buried in my shoulder and you dare insult me?_ “Shut up and pull them out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I hurt you feelings?” Jaskier tugged out another spine.

Geralt was irritated, perhaps, that he couldn’t do this himself; that he’d had to ask for Jaskier’s help.

With a grunt Geralt turned away. “Witchers don’t feel.”

Kneeling there, gently bathing in Geralt’s irritation and exhaustion and begrudging comfort and amusement, Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh.

“You think that funny?” said Geralt.

“I think it’s hilarious,” said Jaskier. He took out another spine, minding the barbs. “Of course you have feelings.”

“Do I?” said Geralt, in a significant tone, a tone that meant _how do you know, really. How do you know I’m not pretending?_ If Jaskier was the human bard Geralt believed him to be it might even have worked, for a moment.

“I know you have feelings.” But he was skirting a little too close to the truth for comfort. “Nobody could fake a bad temper – _that_ well.” He tugged out a spine.

“Hm,” said Geralt.

There – another bright spot in the cloud of his emotions. A feeling of comfort. Of intimacy. When Jaskier was with him the loneliness that was ever-present in Geralt wasn’t so all-encompassing as it used to be. It eased, and sometimes it eased still more. He wished he could make it ease altogether. If only Geralt would let him in – let someone in, _anyone_ – the clouds might clear, and the sun come out. He ached to see Geralt happy, really and truly so.

He pulled out the last spine and dropped it to the bare earth beside him. “There,” he said. “Aren’t you glad you let me tag along?”

“Hm.” Geralt touched his shoulder, checking it was uninjured – or at least not bleeding. Satisfied, he shrugged his shirt back on. “I thought you wished you’d stayed back at the inn.”

“ _Well_ ,” said Jaskier. True, he was longing for a real bed after the day they’d had, but he’d slept in worse spots.

“With that girl,” said Geralt.

“Ah,” said Jaskier. He lounged back on his elbows, looking at the clouds moving across the moon. “She _was_ a beauty, wasn’t she?”

“Hm,” said Geralt, and whether or not that was an agreement Jaskier honestly wasn’t sure.

“I thought she might be my new muse,” said Jaskier. “I could have written a hundred sonnets about her eyes – and the way hair curled – but it wasn’t to be.”

“Hm?” said Geralt.

“Her heart belonged to another,” said Jaskier. He’d made sure of that.

“Of course it did,” said Geralt. “Why is it you only want what you can’t have?”

“Who knows,” said Jaskier.

In truth he hadn’t wanted her at all. He wasn’t built to want people. He loved people – loved them more than anything else in the world – but to want them, to love them individually, that wasn’t in his nature.

But Geralt had seen him chatting up men and women, noticed him slipping away for a few hours or a whole night, and he’d made assumptions, and Jaskier had elected to go along with it. It made things easier, after all. And he _did_ enjoy making up a good story.

Geralt was rising to his feet. “Try and get some sleep,” he said. “We’ll take the head to the village in the morning.”

*

The sky was a bright, piercing blue. Not far from where he stood, gripping the trunk of a tree in one hand and Roach’s bridle in the other the land dropped away, plunging down sharply into the gorge. Only a few yards from where Geralt was fighting, an expanse of empty space that might swallow him up.

Hissing the wyvern spat venom, and Geralt dodged, dropping to the ground and rolling, coming to a stop a scant three feet away from the edge. “Careful!” Jaskier cried out. He didn’t think Geralt heard him – or if he did he didn’t care.

Raising his sword Geralt thrust up, but it was too quick for him. His sword struck its neck, deep enough to anger, not deep enough to kill, and with a screech it took flight.

Jaskier watched it circle, tracking it with his eyes. Looking down he saw Geralt rising to his feet, struggling more than he should – was he hurt? He might be hurt. Thank the gods, he was moving away from the edge.

He sensed the dive before it came. A crackling in the air, a burst of fury as the wyvern made up its mind to descend. “ _Geralt!_ ” he shouted, but again Geralt didn’t seem to hear, and it was already too late.

The wyvern dropped like a stone and was on Geralt before he could dodge, pinning him to the ground with its clawed feet. He’d lost his grip on his sword and was groping blindly for it in the grass. Would he be able to get it, before the wyvern struck – Jaskier didn’t know and he wasn’t about to find out. Dropping Roach’s bridle he took off at a run.

It was raising its head, poised to strike, and Geralt’s sword was just out of reach. Not thinking about what he was doing – too afraid to think – he threw himself at it, wrapping his arms around his neck, trying to weigh it down. It hissed, shaking its head, trying to be rid of him, but he held on tighter.

“Jaskier!” Geralt cried.

He didn’t heed the warning. He relaxed his grip to reach for his knife and as he did so it shook him still harder, almost throwing him off. He drove his knife at its face and it rebounded off iron-tough scales. He thrust again, wildly, almost at random, and this time his knife found its mark, sinking into an eye.

The wyvern _howled_ , its pain and rage rippling through the air around it – and it took flight. His feet left the ground and his stomach lurched and he thought _oh, fuck_.

He dropped his knife and held on with both hands. It wasn’t enough. The scales of its neck were smooth and slippery with blood and he couldn’t get a good enough grip. Then it banked in the air, turning, and his grip failed him – and he fell.

The wind rushed around him, and he glimpsed Geralt, on his feet, a hand stretched out towards him, and then saw only the rock face of the gorge, the river glinting silver far below him, the bright blue sky.

He breathed out. He manifested his wings.

Wings unfurling around him, it took him a moment to catch himself; a moment longer, to steady himself in the air. He hung there for a moment, beating his wings, hovering.

He flew up, up to a ledge on the cliff face, and balanced there. He wiped the blood off his hand on a patch of moss and took ahold of the rock, and sighed. That could have gone worse. If he was very lucky Geralt wouldn’t notice anything amiss. If he was lucky, and Geralt wasn’t paying attention.

He looked down at the river, sparkling far below.

Above him, a rattling screech, and the sound of a large, scaly body striking the earth. A cry. “Jaskier!”

He felt Geralt coming closer to the cliff edge, felt his rage and his – what was that? Not fear. Geralt didn’t get afraid. Shock. Dread. Anguish, perhaps. Not fear, but horrified anticipation of what he might see when he looked over the edge and – oh. Shit.

Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever hidden his wings so fast. His shoulder blades vibrated with the suddenness of it, setting his teeth on edge – and not a moment too soon, for Geralt’s head appeared over the edge of the cliff.

“Jaskier,” he said, his voice toneless, but with a surge of golden relief.

“Hi!” said Jaskier.

“You’re alright,” said Geralt, still toneless. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” said Jaskier. “I’m absolutely fine. Why don’t you go and, um, finish off your witchering? I’ll make my own way back up. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m coming down,” said Geralt.

“You don’t need to come down,” Jaskier called up. “I’m fine. Really – oh, he’s coming down,” he muttered to himself as Geralt lowered himself down onto the cliff. “Of course he is.”

He _really_ didn’t fancy the climb back up without the aid of his wings, and he definitely didn’t fancy the fall into the gorge. Five hundred years on the other side danced before his eyes.

Grunting, Geralt picked his way down the cliff, and Jaskier watched anxiously, wincing every time a hand or a foot slipped, till at last Geralt’s feet touched his ledge. Letting go of the cliff he reached out a hand to touch Jaskier’s shoulder. “You’re not hurt?”

“Physically, no,” Jaskier babbled. “Emotionally I fear I’ll never be the same. My whole life flashed before my eyes. A delightful and riveting tale to be sure but not something one wants to experience on account of falling to one’s death.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, his tension easing a smidge. “What the fuck were you thinking? You could have been killed.”

“So could you,” said Jaskier. Really and truly killed, forever. It didn’t bear thinking about. “To tell you the truth I wasn’t thinking much of anything. I take it you killed it?”

“Yeah.” Geralt was looking up, towards the clifftop. “How did you get here?” He was thinking, Jaskier had no doubt, of the angle at which Jaskier had been thrown; the improbability, downright impossibility, even, of his ending up perched on that particular ledge.

“I was falling and I just sort of – grabbed,” said Jaskier. “It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. I’m not quite sure how it happened myself.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, unconvinced, still looking up, tracing the path Jaskier had taken with his eyes.

“Will you look at that drop, though?” said Jaskier, and taking one hand off the cliff he leaned backwards to look at it. “Goodness me.”

“Jaskier!” said Geralt.

“What river is that, d’you think?” said Jaskier. “D’you know its name?”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” said Geralt, grabbing his shoulder, forcing him upright, distracted from the logistics – temporarily, at least. “Hold _on_. Stop laughing. Why are you laughing?”

“I’m having hysterics,” said Jaskier, and he laughed harder. He breathed deep, and tried to calm down. “Are you injured?”

“Barely,” Geralt grunted. His gaze drifted away, not up but out, over the vista before them, the far side of the gorge, the woods beyond, the river far below.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?” said Jaskier. “Makes me wish I had my quill.” Looking at the rippling forest, he breathed out. It was over. Geralt was in one piece.

“Hm,” said Geralt.

They clung there for long moments in silence, looking out at that view, catching their breath. Geralt’s tension had eased still more, his anger fading, his ever-present dour mood muted, all of it suffused with and drowned in his relief and gladness.

“We should go back up,” he said.

“Why don’t you go on ahead,” said Jaskier. “I’ll catch you up. I want to admire the view a bit more. Really commit it to memory, you know.”

“Hm.” Reaching over Geralt took a hold of the back of Jaskier’s doublet. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll help you.”

“I – I don’t need your help,” said Jaskier. “Really, I’m fine.”

“Take it slowly,” said Geralt. “Test your handholds. Hand and then foot.”

“Geralt –” It was best to go along with it. Reaching up he began to climb, Geralt’s steadying hand on his back.

“I’m right behind you,” said Geralt.

“I know,” said Jaskier. “I know.”

*

The wyvern’s head made them _very_ popular. The mood in the tavern was festive, relief and joy swimming in the air; a wonderful atmosphere to perform in.

There was a woman in the tavern who was looking at Geralt. He noticed her while he was playing, one of the few sets of eyes that wasn’t on him. She was old to be unmarried – a widow, old grief hanging off her like cobwebs.

She was looking at Geralt as people did sometimes, when he’d saved them, when Jaskier was at his side, a warm, welcoming look. But it was more than that. He could feel the pinkish blush of her attraction. She was interested. She wanted to talk to him – to know him – to touch him.

Geralt had noticed her looking. He’d noticed, and he felt a spark of attraction. He was flattered by her attention. He wouldn’t go and talk to her. It wasn’t in his nature.

Protesting to the crowd that he needed another ale before he could sing any more, Jaskier went to the bar, and regarded Geralt. He could go over there and sit with Geralt and talk to him, and while he was talking weave his magic around him, building that spark into a fire, make him want to go to her. And then in time what Geralt and the woman felt might blossom into love.

He thought about it. Not for the first time, he thought about it. This was far from the first time someone had wanted Geralt. This wasn’t the first time it was someone Geralt wanted back. And this time, it was good. It would be a good match. But his gut said _no_.

A good match wasn’t enough. Geralt deserved – _needed_ better than that. He deserved glorious – passionate – _spectacular_ love. That was what he wanted, for Geralt.

Downing the last of his ale, he took up his lute. “Alright!” he called out to a chorus of cheer. “Who’s ready to go again?”

*

He hummed to himself, as he stumbled up the narrow stairs, pleasantly unsteady on his feet, his head enjoyably swimmy. Geralt was just behind him, hand occasionally drifting to Jaskier’s back, steadying him.

“ _Oh_ , my darling, oh, oh,” he hummed. “Oh my darling, cover me in – _hm_.” On the poky landing, he staggered and turning leaned heavily against the wall. “Geralt,” he said, not so much to get his attention as just to taste Geralt’s name in his mouth.

“Yeah?” said Geralt.

“I’m drunk,” said Jaskier, and broke into giggles.

Geralt rested a hand on the wall beside him, caging him in, but not in an unfriendly way, and Jaskier laughed again.

“How drunk?” said Geralt, sounding very serious.

“Um,” said Jaskier, collecting his wits. “Not _that_ drunk. Just,” he waved a hand, “merry. Why?”

“That was a brave thing you did today,” said Geralt.

“Oh, well,” said Jaskier. “All in a day’s work.”

“It isn’t,” said Geralt. “You didn’t have to do anything. I’m grateful. It was stupid of you. But I’m grateful.” He shifted his weight, anxious.

There was no reason for him to be anxious, and Jaskier floundered. Why was Geralt anxious? Everything was fine – better than fine. “You’re welcome?”

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” said Geralt. He was looking into Jaskier’s eyes in a way he rarely did, preferring, most of the time, to avoid the gaze of others.

He touched Jaskier’s face, stroking the back of his hand down his cheek, a soft, gentle touch. Jaskier’s skin prickled in its wake. He swallowed.

And he knew what _this_ was. He knew just what Geralt was feeling. He’d felt it before, countless times, a rosy, warm haze of attraction – more than that, of _affection_. A heat. A wanting. He knew that feeling. He _lived_ in that feeling.

He’d never had it directed at himself.

“No.” Reaching up, he batted Geralt’s hand away. “I, I don’t –”

“I’m sorry.” Geralt stepped away from him, taking his hand from the wall. “I overstepped.”

“It’s alright,” said Jaskier, though it wasn’t. “These things happen.”

“It won’t happen again,” said Geralt. “I misunderstood. I’m sorry.”

That rosy haze was passing and in its wake a grey loneliness was closing in, loneliness and disappointment and the sharp, awful sting of rejection. He knew all those feelings. To be the cause of them was – a new feeling. A dreadful, nauseous feeling in his chest.

They stood for another moment, staring at each other, and Jaskier had no doubt he must look like a cornered deer. Geralt’s face was stony.

“Good night,” he said at length, and stepping around Jaskier he went into the room they were to share. The door closed.

Breathing out, Jaskier slumped against the wall, his hand going to his chest. With the closed door and some distance between them Geralt’s grey, miserable cloud faded into the background, and he could think more clearly – he could feel, more clearly.

He knew this feeling. This feeling, in his chest. He’d felt it so many times, but never inside himself. It was called _heartache_.

“Oh,” he said aloud. “Oh, fuck.”

He was too drunk for this. He sobered up, his head lolling back against the wall, fingers carding through his hair, veins burning as the alcohol left his system. Sober, he considered the situation again. “ _Fuck_.”

He looked back at the last years of his life with a new and dreadful clarity. He wanted Geralt to be happy, and complete. He wanted the clouds of his loneliness to clear. And when he was the one to make them clear, even for a moment, that made him sing inside.

He wanted to know where that touch led. Geralt had wanted to kiss him and for a second he’d wanted it.

He wanted Geralt. He wanted Geralt for himself. He’d wanted Geralt since the first moment he’d seen him. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t _want_. Not like that. He wasn’t built that way.

Geralt was on the other side of the wall. They had to sleep in the same room and ride out together in the morning. Jaskier had to face him. What was he going to do. What was he going to _say_.

When at least he ventured into the room, Geralt was lying still, his eyes closed, to all outward appearances asleep. Jaskier could feel that he wasn’t sleeping, feel his emotions still whirling, sinking, but he acted as if he couldn’t tell, stumbled into the room as if he was drunk, made a show of colliding with the foot of his bed.

“ _Ow_.” Sitting, he kicked off his shoes, shrugged off his doublet. He lay down, facing the wall, facing away from Geralt. He listened to Geralt’s breathing, till at last it slowed, till he was asleep.

He considered his situation.

He wanted Geralt – somehow, impossibly, wanted him. And Geralt wanted him back.

Only Geralt didn’t want _him_. Geralt wanted Jaskier, the human bard he’d got to know, the fragile, brave human who wrote ballads about him, who’d follow him to the ends of the earth, who’d put his life on the line to save him. Geralt didn’t know what he actually was. If Geralt knew what he was, would he still want him? Of course not. Of course he wouldn’t.

So what did this change, really? Did this change anything? He’d rather see Geralt happy with someone else than unhappy and wanting him. Or, he didn’t want to see Geralt happy with someone else, but he wanted to know that he was happy. He wanted to look in on Geralt from time to time and see him happy and know that he was the cause of that happiness, from afar.

This didn’t change anything, he told himself. This changed nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He wished, as he’d been wont to do lately for the first time in his very, very long existence, he dearly wished that he was human. He wished he was a human bard called Jaskier who'd had parents and a childhood, who would die someday, who could love Geralt and be loved in return. They might not be in this position, if he was human._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading & commenting!!
> 
> Some questions you may or may not have had about chapter 1:
> 
> \- I intend to cover some of what happened to Jaskier's previous body in future installments in this series (though not in this fic) so I will not get into it now BUT it is not especially plot relevant.
> 
> \- Is Eros a committee? A single genderless entity that uses the royal we? Some kind of 'we are legion' situation? You decide!

In theory, it had been an excellent plan. A way of killing not two but _three_ birds with one stone.

Firstly: finish a job he’d been working on for some time. Secondly: get Geralt to an actual social occasion for once in his life, increasing his chances of meeting a suitable person. And lastly, but not leastly, play his new set in front of a very distinguished and hopefully adoring audience.

All in all he didn’t think it had gone that badly. Two out of three wasn’t a bad success rate. He’d played his set to a mostly warm reception, Calanthe and Eist had publically announced their engagement, _and_ he’d got to witness the conclusion of a quite fascinating love story – he’d have to find out which of his fellows had been behind it and shake them by the hand.

Really. It could have gone a lot worse.

Even with his particular abilities it took him weeks, afterwards, to hunt down Geralt.

“Ah, so _this_ is where you’ve been hiding,” he said, sliding into the seat opposite.

“Fuck off,” said Geralt, not raising his head from his stew.

“Where have you been?” said Jaskier. “I’ve been searching high and low. _Honestly_.” Geralt grunted. “Well, you missed the afterparty. It was a good time.”

“I don’t care,” said Geralt.

He was in a dark, prickly mood. Jaskier rested his chin on his hand, and regarded him. “What crawled up _your_ arse and died?”

Geralt shot him a look across the table as if to say _are you kidding me_.

Jaskier spread his hands. “It wasn’t all bad!” he said. “You were having a nice time until the swords came out. Admit it.”

Geralt grunted.

“I shall take that as a yes,” said Jaskier. He reached for a piece of Geralt’s bread. Geralt glowered at him. “Well I, for one, had a lovely evening.”

“People died,” said Geralt.

“Yes, true,” said Jaskier, “but is there anything finer in the world than the ending of a beautiful love story?”

“Peace and quiet,” said Geralt.

“Highly subjective,” said Jaskier. “People _love_ love,” he went on, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s why they like me so much.”

He reached again for Geralt’s bread. Geralt smacked his hand away. “Fuck _off_.”

He knew he was wearing on Geralt’s patience. Even if he couldn’t feel it for himself, if there was one emotional state that Geralt wore on his sleeve it was the fraying of his patience. But if it was fray Geralt’s patience or let him sit alone in the corner of a grimy tavern sinking deeper and deeper into a black mood, then fray he would.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he said.

“Talk about what?” said Geralt.

“The,” said Jaskier, lowering his voice even though the hubbub of the tavern was drowning him out perfectly well, “child.” Geralt didn’t answer. “Of surprise?”

“No,” said Geralt.

“You can talk to me,” said Jaskier.

“Don’t want to.”

“I mean,” said Jaskier. “You’re going to have to talk about it eventually.” Geralt said nothing. “Geralt.” Reaching out he laid a hand on his arm.

Geralt jerked his arm away so fast his bowl rattled on the table. Jaskier drew his hand back, half-clenching it.

The thing of it was – the uncomfortable truth was – Geralt still wanted him. Even though years had passed since that night in the inn, since his ill-fated attempt at seduction, Geralt wanted him.

He hid it well. If Jaskier was human he’d have thought Geralt’s interest had passed. He hid it behind his stony expression and his monosyllables and his gruff tones. He avoided Jaskier’s touch, and avoided looking him in the eye. But he wanted. Sometimes when his back was turned Jaskier could feel Geralt looking at him, wanting, feel the rose-tinted glow of his attraction.

It was wrong. It was all wrong. But it felt nice, being wanted.

He drummed his fingers on the table in thought. “Alright, well,” he said, “if you don’t want to talk to me, how would you feel about getting absolutely smashed?”

At last, Geralt looked up at him, a hint of amusement and relaxation breaking through his dour mood.

*

He was out in the woods, enjoying the pleasant evening, humming to himself as he pissed against a tree when suddenly out of the rustling leaves overhead Eros said, _Julian_.

“Gods _above_!” he said, almost jumping clean out of his body. He staggered back, cursing to himself as he pissed on his foot. “Will you give a man some privacy? For pity’s sake!”

_You’re not a man_ , Eros drawled, impatient and entirely unfazed, _entirely_ not giving a fuck what they were intruding on.

“Well, I still need privacy sometimes!” said Jaskier, thrusting himself back into his breeches. “What – what do you want. What did I do this time.”

_We were impressed by your work in Cintra._

“Oh.” Jaskier finished lacing himself up. “Well. It was some of my finest work, if I may say so myself. Definitely in the top ten.” He did not think, somehow, that Eros had interrupted him in the middle of attending to his needs just to compliment him. “Thank you. That’s very kind. Am I dismissed?”

_We have a job for you._

“You what now?” said Jaskier.

A job. That wasn’t unprecedented, exactly. He knew from his fellows that it happened from time to time. 

_It concerns Geralt of Rivia._

“Really?” said Jaskier, perking up. “You’ve changed your tune. Have you – found someone for him?” That wouldn’t be his first choice, Eros making the match – but so long as he was the one who actually got to do it, it wouldn’t be so bad.

The leaves overhead rustled. The wind blew past his ears, and the knowledge settled into his mind, the knowledge of just what it was they wanted him to do. His stomach went leaden. “Oh,” he said. “That’s, um. That’s not how we usually do things.”

_This is important._

“How important?” said Jaskier. “We don’t – we don’t do things like this. I refuse.”

_It’s a matter of Destiny._

“Ohh,” said Jaskier. “I see how it is. Orders from higher up, hm? Since when are we in the grip of Destiny? Love goes its own way.”

_You’ll do it._

“Why me?”

_You’re close to him.”_

“Close –” They didn’t mean it like that. They meant physically close. Socially close. They didn’t have the slightest idea how he felt. How could they? It would never occur to them for a moment. Some things truly _were_ unprecedented. “I won’t do it.”

_You’ll do it. Or else._

“Or else _what_?”

The knowledge of just _what_ settled into his mind like silt into dank water.

“Oh,” he said. “Or that.”

Absently, he looked down at himself, at the body he currently occupied. He thought of the life he’d built, this time around. It was a good life, at turns comfortable and thrilling. He liked being Jaskier. He didn’t want it to end.

But he would never willingly do anything that would hurt Geralt. He’d leave earth behind forever before he’d see Geralt hurt.

“Fine,” he lied. “I’ll do it. I’ll get it done.”

_Yes, you will_ ,” said Eros on the wind. _Good evening, Julian._

The leaves were just leaves. The wind was just wind. He was alone. He considered his situation.

He said aloud, “I think I shall get drunk.”

*

The last day or so of his life was a touch… fuzzy. He had a number of pressing questions, such as what had become of his second best doublet, where he was in relation to the inn where he’d left all his worldly possessions, and just what Geralt had gone and _done_.

The djinn’s magic was all over Geralt and Yennefer. It had woven itself around them in delicate but steel-strong threads. A net, ensnaring them both. They hadn’t noticed yet. It wasn’t the type of magic either of them were sensitive to. It wasn’t of their world.

It was closer to his. He’d sensed the djinn miles away and his heart had sunk heavier and heavier as following Geralt’s path had drawn him closer and closer to it. He’d tried to distract Geralt and when that hadn’t worked he’d tried to pry it out of his hands – and when _that_ hadn’t worked, he’d tried to wish it away, tried to wish for the frivolous sort of things Jaskier the bard might want so that it might grant his wishes and _leave_. Inspiration. First place in a music competition. That sort of thing.

He’d forgotten how tricky djinn could be. His mouth tasted of blood.

“Someone’s in a better mood,” he said once the dust had settled.

“Hm?” said Geralt, leading Roach away from the tumbled remains of the house.

“I said, _someone’s_ in a better –”

“I heard you,” said Geralt. “Got some sleep.”

“Oh, you got a lot more than some _sleep_ ,” said Jaskier, jogging after him, two steps behind. “You got to butter that biscuit, eh? Filled that cream cake? Danced the goat’s jig? Eh?”

He’d expected a sharp retort to that, or at least a glare, but glancing over his shoulder Geralt looked at him, a slight smile upon his face, and said nothing at all. He’d never seen Geralt smile like that before.

Jealousy punched him hard in the stomach, just as it had hit him when he’d looked through the window of that ruined house and seen them together. He hated jealousy. He’d always hated jealousy, even before he’d experienced it first-hand.

Now it was writhing in his guts, and he _reviled_ it. Wanting Geralt felt good, so long as he didn’t think about it too hard. This felt like someone grinding his face into the dirt. It made him want to punch things and scream at the heavens.

He hadn’t really known what was going to happen. He’d known there was no way he was doing what Eros wanted – what Destiny wanted. He’d tried and tried to think of a way around it. He’d prepared himself for being dragged out of his body and back to the other side.

He’d never for a moment expected they might come together on their own.

What Geralt felt was genuine. It was _good_. The first stirrings of real affection, real love, with an intensity he’d have been thrilled to stumble upon in two people who were right for each other. But this, this was going to lead to heartbreak, on both sides. He wanted to grab Geralt by the shoulders and scream at him _don’t do it. Don’t. You’re going to get hurt. You’re going to hurt her._

It was too late for that.

Slowing he caught up with Geralt, falling into step beside him. Aloud, half to himself, he said, “what happens now?” 

“None of your business,” said Geralt. Then he said, “didn’t think you’d be the type.”

“The type?” said Jaskier. “The type to what?”

“Judge.”

“I am not,” said Jaskier, holding up a finger, “I am _not_ judging you.” In truth he was judging a large number of Geralt’s life choices, at all times, but wild sex in a destroyed building with a woman he’d just met wasn’t one of them. It was everything leading up to the sex that he was passing judgement on. “I’m not judging you.”

“No?” said Geralt.

“Just wondering what I’m going to do with myself,” said Jaskier. “If you’re going to be otherwise occupied,” he added hastily.

“Fear not,” said Geralt gravely. “I’m not going to be otherwise occupied.”

Geralt left town. Jaskier left with him, at a lost for what else to do. He sat by the fire, alone, strumming his lute and watching sparks fly up into the heavens.

The fire popped. _Julian_.

“Ah.” He hugged his lute to his chest, human heart suddenly racing. “Eros. I, um.” He wasn’t ready for this conversation. He’d thought he’d have more time. He’d been so distracted by the day’s happenings, he hadn’t made a plan.

_Good work today._

Jaskier looked at the fire. He followed the sparks up, up, towards the sky, and to the stars said, “excuse me?”

_Good work_ ,” said Eros from the stars. _Very subtle_.

“Oh,” said Jaskier, understanding. “Oh! Well, you know me. Subtlety is – not my forte, actually, but in this instance I thought it would be fitting.”

_Quite_ , said Eros. _We’re impressed. Though we do wish you’d be less careless with that body._

“I had the situation under control,” Jaskier lied shamelessly.

_Of course you did_ , said Eros. _Well done. Good work. You can leave the witcher to his own devices now._

“Naturally,” said Jaskier.

The fire crackled. He was alone again. He could feel Geralt coming back through the trees.

“Bloody _fuck_ ,” he muttered.

“Talking to yourself again?” said Geralt from the shadows, still unnervingly cheerful.

“As ever,” said Jaskier. He strummed his lute thoughtfully and said, “what are some words that rhyme with _djinn_?”

Stepping into the firelight, Geralt said, “don’t you dare.”

*

“I just don’t understand what you _see_ in her,” said Jaskier. He lay curled up against Geralt’s side, the two of them pressed together in a bed that would have been a tight squeeze even if one of them wasn’t an unreasonably broad-shouldered witcher.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted.

“I mean,” said Jaskier, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the two perfect strangers they were currently bunking with, the men slumbering on the other side of the room. “Aside from stunning beauty and impressive wits and phenomenal dress sense. Which are, I grant you, three quite compelling arguments. But _still_.”

Geralt didn’t answer, but Jaskier felt his amusement. Geralt was less lonely and more contented, when he was around. Geralt didn’t look at him with want any more. That ought to be a good thing – it _was_ a good thing, that Geralt didn’t want him anymore. It was better that Geralt didn’t want him, because Geralt couldn’t ever have him. He just wished it wasn’t like _this_.

“There are a great many beautiful women and handsome men in the world,” he said. “Did you have to pick one quite so. Venomous?”

“The heart wants what it wants,” said Geralt. “Isn’t that what you say?”

“That,” said Jaskier, “is the refrain of a song I wrote. Yes.” He rolled onto his back.

They _would_ keep crossing paths with Yennefer. It had been years and they weren’t getting rid of her any time soon. He saw the way Geralt lit up when she was around and he’d be happy for him, he _would_ , if it wasn’t for where this was going.

He wished, as he’d been wont to do lately for the first time in his very, very long existence, he _dearly_ wished that he was human. He wished he was a human bard called Jaskier who'd had parents and a childhood, who would die someday, who could love Geralt and be loved in return. They might not be in this position, if he was human.

“Why do you care?” said Geralt, starting him out of his musing.

“Hm?” he said.

“I don’t get worked up about who you’re fucking,” said Geralt.

_But it’s not just fucking_ , Jaskier wanted to say. _It’s love. Love can be angry. Love can be painful. Love can be venomous_. He said, as close to the truth as he dared, “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m not going to get hurt, Jaskier,” said Geralt, his voice so steady, so sure. “Go to sleep.”

*

He’d known it would all end in tears. He’d known Geralt was going to be hurt. He hadn’t anticipated just _how_ hurt, just how awful it would feel, like someone had opened up his chest and ripped out his lungs. He’d been prepared to be there for Geralt, afterwards.

Jaskier hadn’t – for a single moment – been prepared for Geralt lashing out at _him_.

He hadn’t been prepared for how that would feel. He’d never been close enough to someone to be pushed away. It felt like he’d been shoved without warning off a cliff. Like someone had torn off one of his limbs. 

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know who he was, without Geralt. Everything he’d done for twenty years had been shaped around Geralt. He’d named himself for Geralt.

He should have stayed away. He’d been ordered to stay away and it was about time he followed that order. Instead he let Geralt find him.

First he found Geralt. Then he put himself squarely in the background – putting on a memorable performance a town over – singing a new song about the dragon hunt – getting into a scrape involving the local landlord’s niece, a very stubborn donkey, and a night in jail – and waited for Geralt to notice. Waited to see if Geralt would come to him.

Geralt came to him. He fumbled his way through an apology, not looking Jaskier in the eye. He said, _I’m sorry_. He said, _I didn’t mean it_. And Jaskier that said it was fine, that he understood, that he knew Geralt hadn’t meant it, even though Geralt had.

He might not mean it any more. He might be crawling with guilt and misery now but when he’d said it he’d been furious. When he’d said it, he’d meant every word of it.

Geralt didn’t say _take me back_ and he didn’t say _please_ but Jaskier could feel that plea hanging in the silence. He could feel Geralt’s longing, feel his loneliness closing him. He could feel that Geralt wanted him again.

He wanted to say, _do you actually want me – or do you just not want to be alone any more, now that **she** doesn’t want you?_

What he wanted, more than anything, was for things to go back to the way they were, before the mountain, before Yennefer, before Destiny. He let himself believe, for the first few uneasy weeks together, that things could go back to the way they’d been. He should have known better.

There wasn’t any way he could have known just _how_ wildly things were going to go off track.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he said, on his hands and knees on the forest floor, shuddering from head to foot. “Oh gods. Ohh, fuck.”

Beside him the ghoul lay dead, his silver dagger buried in its eye. It had been a _long_ time since he’d had to handle a blade but fortunately it wasn’t one of those things one could – forget – his body spasmed, and he retched bile onto the ground. Blood ran down his shoulder from the place where it had buried its teeth. His veins burned with its poison.

He just had to breathe. He had to keep breathing, and concentrate. Both were easier said than done, when he had venom swimming through his blood, doing its best to shut down his lungs, to rip him apart from the inside.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he sought out the venom, the intruder in his body, and forced it drop by hideously painful drop out of his veins. His shoulders lurched, dry-heaving. His mouth filled with poison, dark and foul-tasting.

He spat out two mouthfuls. Coughed. Spat out the dregs of it. His head swam. His limbs felt weak. But his body would live.

Kneeling up, he tugged his silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his mouth. He adjusted his shirt and doublet, making sure the bite mark was hidden from view. He’d pass muster, he thought.

Getting to his feet, he stumbled unsteady as a fawn back to their campsite, the fire still burning, Roach standing nearby, peacefully cropping the grass. She raised her head as he approached and flicked her ears at him.

“What are you looking at?” he said aloud. She dropped her head to the ground. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said, digging in his pack for his hipflask.

He took a long draught of vodka, and spat, rinsing his mouth till it tasted at least somewhat less of ghoul. “ _Ugh_ ,” he said, resting one hand on a tree to steady himself. His head was pounding. His body hurt. “ _Why_ do I let myself get dragged into these messes.”

Geralt was coming soundless as ever through the trees. Jaskier straightened up, trying to compose himself. “Evening.” He took another draught of vodka. “Drink? You look like you need it.” He offered the flask.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, relief flowing through him. He was a little worse for wear, blood-spattered and dishevelled, but unhurt. In his hand he held his silver sword, naked, wiped clean of the ghouls’ blood. “I thought –” Whatever he had thought, he didn’t put voice to.

“I got the last one for you,” said Jaskier, motioning behind himself with the flask. “Very – _very_ lucky shot. Got it through the eye. No need to thank me.”

“Hm,” said Geralt. His relief was giving way to something else – not to calmness. To some kind of agitation.

Jaskier kept talking. “Just my luck the one time I manage to kill something it’s on a hunt you’re not getting paid for,” he said. “Could have had my fair share for once. Eh?” He looked at Geralt as if to say, _what do you have to say to that?_

Geralt was staring at him, his head cocked to the side, puzzled, anxious. Jaskier’s hand went to his shoulder, checking the bite was still covered by his doublet, and relaxed when his fingers touched embroidered silk.

“Are you hurt?” said Geralt.

“No,” Jaskier lied, the bite throbbing. Geralt’s eyes went to his shoulder, and he was uncomfortably aware of the blood and venom soaking into his undershirt.

Geralt closed the short distance between them in two strides and before Jaskier could say more than, “ _hey_ –” took ahold of his doublet and tugged it roughly down his shoulder, exposing the ragged bite.

At the sight of it Geralt made a noise. A shocked, wounded noise. 

“Geralt,” said Jaskier, wrestling his doublet out of Geralt’s unresisting grip. “Careful. This is new.”

“It bit you,” said Geralt.

“Barely,” said Jaskier. Geralt was studying his face, taking him in, his hair plastered to his forehead and temples with sweat, his pale complexion, a touch sickly to be sure but not at death’s door. Breaking his gaze Jaskier touched his shoulder. “It’s just a scratch, really –”

Geralt’s sword was at his throat, silver glistening in the firelight.

“Geralt!” Jaskier pressed himself against the tree at his back, his voice squeaking, raising his hands in surrender. “Have you lost your _mind?_ ”

“One bite’s enough to kill,” said Geralt.

“Geralt, what are you doing?” said Jaskier. “It’s _me_ – what are you –”

“You should be dead,” said Geralt. “Why aren’t you dead?”

“I, I don’t know,” Jaskier lied. “I guess tonight’s just my lucky night, or –”

“What are you?”

“Right now I’m confused and afraid,” said Jaskier. “Geralt –”

“No human could take that and walk away,” said Geralt.

Jaskier’s insides went icy cold. “Geralt,” he said. “Look at me. Look me in the eye, Geralt. You’re not thinking straight. It’s me – I’m your friend, I, I don’t – you don’t want to hurt me –”

As he spoke he couldn’t help but eye the sword, its glinting silver point so _very_ close to his throat. Silver didn’t scare him, exactly, but it put his teeth on edge.

Geralt caught his gaze. He grunted in thought – and lifting his sword touched the edge of it to Jaskier’s neck, not enough to break his skin, just enough for him to feel it, and that contact _burned_. He hissed, his eyes squeezing shut. “Geralt, don’t –”

The sword fell away. Jaskier’s hand went to his neck, not fast enough to cover the red line burned into it.

He met Geralt’s eyes, and the look he saw there knocked the breath from his lungs. A haunted look, like Geralt was about to weep. Like he’d just lost a friend. A heavy, dark feeling was rising within him, and that feeling had a name. It was called _betrayal._

“What are you?” he said again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jaskier weakly.

“Are you,” said Geralt, halting, like he could hardly bear to ask, “are you Jaskier?”

“Of course I am,” said Jaskier.

“You smell like him,” said Geralt. “You smell human. But you –” He was studying Jaskier’s face, searching for – what? Some sign he wasn’t Jaskier? A sign that he was lying? An answer to his many questions. “I’ve known you twenty years,” he said. “You never get a day older.”

He sounded so weary. There was the scantest trace of disbelief, in his voice. And he had Jaskier, there. He had him right by the balls.

Jaskier lolled his head back against the tree trunk and said, “ah, _fuck_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I am a being of love – and light – and benevolence – and I am also a spiteful prick sometimes. These things are **not** mutually exclusive.”_

“You smell human,” said Geralt, studying his face. “But you can’t be. What are you?”

Spreading his hands once again in surrender, Jaskier said, “harmless and benevolent.”

This wasn’t the _first_ time someone had noticed something amiss. But most people, if they said anything at all, would hazard a guess, _are you an elf_ or _are you one of the fair folk_ , and he’d nod and say yes, that was just exactly what he was. Geralt wasn’t most people. Geralt had a wealth of knowledge at his disposal about all the things in the world that might look human, but not be human. Geralt would know perfectly well that Jaskier wasn’t any of them.

“Tell me what you are,” said Geralt.

“Can we –” said Jaskier, “can we talk about this without the sword at my throat?”

Geralt’s face didn’t so much as twitch. His sword didn’t waver from its place at Jaskier’s neck.

“Geralt, it’s _me_ ,” Jaskier pleaded. “You know me. I’m no threat to you. You _know_ that.”

“Do I?” said Geralt.

“Do you what?”

“Know you.”

“Of course,” said Jaskier. “Of course you do.”

“I don’t even know what you are,” said Geralt.

“I’m a bard,” said Jaskier. Altogether the wrong move. With a hot flare of rage Geralt let out a grunt, not quite a growl, and raised his sword still higher, the point coming perilously close. “ _Geralt!_ ” Jaskier slammed his body back against the tree. “I will have this conversation! I _will_ – just, without the sword –”

He was pinned down like a butterfly. There was nowhere to go. He didn’t think Geralt would kill him – he knew Geralt well enough to know he didn’t kill things that could talk and think without good reason. But that sting of betrayal had cut right down to the bone. He didn’t know what Geralt would do if he fought back or tried to run.

He said, “Geralt, you’re scaring me.”

The edge went off Geralt’s anger. Slowly, he lowered his sword – not sheathing it but taking it away from Jaskier’s neck, pointing it at the ground. With it gone he could breathe easy again, and he sucked in a deep breath, trying to compose himself.

“I am,” he said, hands still raised, “not allowed to talk about this.” Another throb of anger and Geralt’s hand clenched on his sword. “I, ah – Geralt –”

“Tell me what you _are_!”

“I’m,” said Jaskier, “I am a Cupid.”

Anger gave way to bewilderment. Geralt cocked his head to the side. “A what?”

“A Cupid,” said Jaskier. “A. Spirit of love?”

People didn’t know about him and his ilk, exactly, but the concept had bled through. People told fanciful stories about them, and sang silly songs. People had made up all sorts of names for them. Nobody with any sense believed they were real, and they liked it that way.

“That’s,” said Geralt, “not a real thing.”

“Alright, considering that I’m real and I’m standing right here in front of you I’d consider that rude,” said Jaskier.

“What does that _mean_?” Geralt wasn’t afraid. He didn’t get afraid. But he was cautiously hostile. He wasn’t convinced Jaskier was no danger to him. And truly, he was no danger to Geralt. He might not be so weak and harmless as he made himself out to be but he was no match for a witcher.

“I make people fall in love,” Jaskier gabbled. “That’s it! That’s all I do! I just make people fall in love.”

Geralt digested that. His mood shifted through confusion, curiosity, understanding – anger. Cold fury, with an edge of disgust. “And you think yourself _harmless_?”

“Geralt –”

“You did this to me.”

There was no anger in his voice. Only weary disbelief. That dark, crushing sense of betrayal was building inside him again – betrayal and something else, something like anguish. Something like the way Geralt had felt that day all those years ago when he’d watch Jaskier plummet off that cliff.

His grip upon his sword was going slack.

“Shit,” said Jaskier. “ _Shit_. Geralt, I –”

“Stop talking,” said Geralt.

“I know what you think I did, and I swear to you I didn’t,” gabbled Jaskier. “I swear to you on _everything_ I am, I didn’t do this –”

“I said stop _talking!_ ” Geralt said with such fury in his voice that Jaskier shut his mouth. Then voice unsteady he said, “can you. Undo it?”

It was just as well Geralt didn’t want him to talk. He didn’t have the slightest idea what to say. Wordless, he shook his head.

Geralt stepped back, nodding in mute acceptance, his jaw very tight. Turning away, he sheathed his sword. He sat down by the fire and said nothing at all.

Jaskier waited long moments for him to speak. He braved a step away from the tree. “Geralt,” he said. “I – I don’t really know what to say to you.”

“Then say nothing.”

“You know I’m no good at that,” said Jaskier. Geralt’s mood didn’t lighten.

But his anger was receding – not passing, rather receding like the tides. In its place a grim acceptance that chilled Jaskier to the bone.

Geralt was feeling anguish, a plunging sense of loss and betrayal, and already with eerie calm he was accepting it. Geralt felt – of all things – foolish. Jaskier couldn’t read his thoughts but he could guess. _Of course,_ he might be thinking. _I should have known. I should have known you couldn’t be what you appeared to be._

 _I should have known it was too good to be true._

“I know what you think I did,” said Jaskier. “And I swear to you –”

Gazing into the fire, Geralt said, “I would never have met her if it wasn’t for you.”

“Well – yes,” said Jaskier. “I know this all looks quite – damning. But it’s not what you think.”

A grunt.

“I don’t know what to say to convince you,” said Jaskier. “I didn’t do this to you. I swear it. You did it to yourself.”

“Why should I believe anything you say?” said Geralt. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m just Jaskier.” Stepping forward, he knelt beside Geralt, a safe distance away. “Nothing’s changed. I’m exactly who you think I am, I’m just a bit – a bit more than that.”

Geralt gazed unmoving into the fire. He said nothing.

“It’s nothing personal,” Jaskier went on. “There’s just – there’s things mortals aren’t meant to know about.” Geralt looked at him with cold steel in his eyes.

It shook something in him, hearing Jaskier say _mortals_. Jaskier felt it, that waver of – not fear, but something close to it. The full realisation that Jaskier was not mortal, hitting him again.

“I never lied to you about anything important,” said Jaskier.

“You and I have very different ideas of what’s _important_ ,” Geralt spat.

“Well, evidently,” said Jaskier.

“Did you know how it would end?”

“I – what?” said Jaskier.

“When you brought me to her,” said Geralt. “Did you know what you were doing? Or were you just reckless?”

Jaskier sat back on his haunches. His palms were clammy. “I didn’t make you fall for her.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth,” said Jaskier. “I don’t know how to –” But there was nothing he could say to convince him.

His gaze fell on the hilt of Geralt’s silver sword, and his shoulder sagged as he realised what he was going to have to do – the _only_ thing he could do, in the circumstances. “Alright,” he said. “Get your sword back out.”

Geralt looked at him, puzzled – puzzled, but curious. He hadn’t expected this. He unsheathed his sword and at the sight of the silver blade Jaskier’s insides squirmed.

“Set it down,” he said, motioning, and saw a sudden light of understanding in Geralt’s eyes. He laid down the sword on the ground beside them, keeping his hand on the hilt. Jaskier sucked in a breath, steeling himself for what he was about to do. He put his hand on the blade.

Pain seared through him and he bit his tongue, hard, biting back a cry. “I can’t lie to you like this.”

“I know,” said Geralt.

“I,” said Jaskier, “was supposed to make you fall in love with Yennefer. I had orders –”

“Orders from who?” said Geralt.

“That’s –” He meant to say _not important_ but the silver stopped his tongue, for it was a lie and he knew it. “Beside the point,” he managed. “I had orders. It’s not something we – normally do, but they said it was a matter of Destiny and I’d be punished if I didn’t – _ow_.” He shifted his hand on the blade, trying to keep the silver against the heel of it, where it wouldn’t hurt _quite_ so badly when he moved his fingers, after. “I was never going to do it. It was wrong. I was going to try and find a way out of it but then you went and bound yourself to her on your own.”

“Could you have made me fall in love with her?” said Geralt.

“I – yes.”

“Was that what this was about from the start?”

“No,” said Jaskier. “They came to me – a few days before the Djinn.”

“Then why were you with me?” said Geralt.

“That’s – beside the point,” said Jaskier, struggling to keep his silver-loosened tongue in check.

“Are you dangerous?”

“To you? No.” Gods, his hand _hurt_. He lifted it off the silver sword, gasping with relief – but Geralt’s hand was heavy atop his, pressing his palm flat to the blade. “Geralt – _hey_ –”

“Why are you still with me?” said Geralt, firelight flashing in his eyes.

“Geralt, that hurts –”

“I did your job for you,” said Geralt. “Why are you still here?”

“That’s –”

“Don’t say it’s beside the point,” said Geralt. “I know creatures like you. I know how you twist words. It isn’t beside the point. I asked you a question.”

Jaskier’s mouth worked. “Don’t make me answer that.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s a – very personal question,” said Jaskier, which was entirely true.

“ _Why are you still with me?_ ” said Geralt, so forcefully that Jaskier couldn’t hold back the truth any longer.

“Because I love you,” he blurted out.

Geralt’s eyes went wide. He released Jaskier’s hand, and hissing in pain he cradled it to his chest. “ _Fuck_.”

“I’m sorry,” said Geralt.

“Don’t ask me to do that again,” Jaskier said.

“I won’t.” Rising, Geralt sheathed his sword and left Jaskier for a moment alone by the fire.

When he sat back down, he was holding a length of bandage. “Let me.” Taking Jaskier by the wrist, he inspected the burn across his palm and began to bind it up. “Why are you a bard?”

“Excuse me?” said Jaskier.

“Why are you a bard?” Geralt’s eyes were fixed on his hand, to all outward appearances intent only on the task of bandaging it. His voice was toneless. But Jaskier could feel the earnest curiosity behind the question, the steady burn of hurt and loss and guilty behind the careful way he wrapped the bandage.

“Same reason anyone else is a bard, I suppose,” said Jaskier. “I love it. I’m good at it.”

“But is that – part of it?” 

Jaskier caught his meaning. “Oh – no,” he said. “Cupid by creation. Bard by choice.”

Holding Jaskier’s bandaged hand in both of his, Geralt said, “who do you answer to?”

“I can’t tell you that,” said Jaskier. Geralt raised his eyes from his hand with a glower. “I _really_ can’t. I’ve told you too much as it is.”

“Something mortals aren’t meant to know?” said Geralt.

“Yes,” Jaskier breathed.

Geralt let go of his hand. He bent it, testing how it moved, and winced. “Well, there goes playing the lute for a while.”

“How long?” said Geralt.

“I don’t know,” said Jaskier. “Until it heals.”

“You can’t – do anything about it?” 

“Hm?” said Jaskier. “Oh – no. I, um. That’s not within my power. I do _one_ thing,” he said, holding up a finger. “And I do it very well, if I say so myself, but it’s just that one thing. Well, technically two things. But mostly the first thing.”

“What’s the other thing?” Geralt’s ears pricked up.

“Shit.” Jaskier dropped his gaze.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt. “What else can you do?”

He shouldn’t have said anything. He couldn’t clam up now, not when he’d just clawed back a little of Geralt’s trust. “Alright,” he said. “It’s, um. Probably easier if I just show you.”

He’d not got them out where anyone mortal could see in many, many years. Geralt was staring at him, a golden, piercing stare, and he felt suddenly – shy? Was he getting shy?

Jaskier breathed deep, and closed his eyes. He shifted his shoulders, trying to relax. He manifested his wings.

He heard Geralt’s intake of breath at the sight – felt a flash of shock – an uneasiness – and, thrillingly, a touch of _delight_. He opened his eyes. 

Geralt was looking at his wings with bare-faced amazement. His eyes followed the movement as Jaskier stretched them out, tracing the gentle arc they made. He lifted his hand as if thinking of reaching out to touch – and dropped it again.

“See?” said Jaskier. Slowly, Geralt nodded. Stretching his wings one last time, he folded them away, and felt a twinge of disappointment that was not his own.

Geralt said, “What are you?” 

“A Cupid,” said Jaskier. “As I said.”

“What does that mean?” said Geralt. “What does it make you?”

“I,” said Jaskier. “I don’t know how to explain.”

“Hm.” Geralt rose to his feet and turning strode away towards the trees.

Jaskier twisted around after him. “Geralt –”

“I need to think,” said Geralt. “Don’t follow me.”

“Of course,” said Jaskier. “I’d understand,” he added, before Geralt could vanish into the trees, and Geralt paused, not looking at him.

“Hm?”

“If you don’t want to see me anymore,” said Jaskier. “I’d understand.”

For a long moment Geralt didn’t answer. “Get some rest,” he said. “You look like you need it.”

Jaskier touched his still-aching shoulder, and watched Geralt walk away.

*

When morning dawned, blue and clear, Geralt was gone. But he’d left Roach behind, so he couldn’t have gone far and he must have meant to return.

Gingerly, Jaskier rose to his feet. His shoulder throbbed and his hand burned when he moved his fingers too quickly, but he refused to let that dampen his mood. In the fresh morning light the situation didn’t seem nearly so bad. They could work this out, he reflected as he stretched out the kinks his back had gained from sleeping on tree roots. If they could just have a proper talk, he was sure Geralt would come around.

He wandered off to the stream for his morning ablutions, and when he came back, his shoulder and neck mostly clean of blood and bile and ghoul venom, Geralt was there, packing his things into Roach’s saddle bags.

“Good morning,” said Jaskier. “Get much sleep?” Geralt didn’t answer. He cleared his throat, and went on. “So, I was thinking –”

Geralt talked clean over him. “This is dangerous country.”

“Oh?” said Jaskier faintly, not liking where this was going.

Geralt pulled a strap taut. “You can travel with me to the next town,” he said. “You make your own way from there.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s throat went tight.

He couldn’t complain. He’d said to Geralt that he’d understand if this was what he wanted, and it wasn’t as if he’d said it idly. He’d known there was a real chance this would happen. But he’d thought they’d at least be able to talk about it first.

He darted closer. “Can we talk?”

“We talked plenty last night,” said Geralt.

“Ye-es,” said Jaskier, “but given that much of the conversation was at sword point I think you had me at a disadvantage.”

“I’d say you had me at a disadvantage from the start.”

“Arguably,” said Jaskier. “I suppose.” He watched Geralt’s hands, busily arranging Roach’s tack. “Let me help –”

Reaching out to help was a mistake. When he stretched his arm there was a tearing throb of pain in his shoulder, and he winced, biting his lip, his hand going to the bite.

Geralt was looking at him – not looking him in the eye, but looking at his shoulder. “Is it still troubling you?”

“Well, yes,” said Jaskier. He’d thought of bandaging it, but the angle made it difficult. It would have to wait till he could find a healer – one who wouldn’t ask too many questions about what had bit him. “Naturally it is.”

“Nothing natural about the way you shook off the venom,” said Geralt.

“I can handle venom, with difficulty,” said Jaskier. “I can’t do anything about having chunks ripped out of me.” He moved his shoulder again, testing it, and again he winced. It was worse than he’d thought.

Geralt looked up at the heavens, filled with furious resignation. Beckoning Jaskier closer he said, “c’mere. Let me see.”

Jaskier shrugged off his doublet, and unlaced his undershirt, exposing the bite fully. A steadying hand on his shoulder, Geralt inspected it. “It’s not deep.” 

“I know,” said Jaskier.

“Can you handle infection?”

“Mmm,” said Jaskier. “Not – appreciably. No.”

Geralt grunted, and rummaged through his bags, coming back with a bottle. “This’ll sting.”

“Alright,” said Jaskier. Geralt upended the bottle onto his shoulder. “Mother _fucker_ –” Flailing, he grabbed at Roach’s saddle, Geralt’s shirt, _anything_ to keep himself upright. “Geralt –”

“Hold still.”

“Are you _trying_ to burn my skin off –”

“Hold _still_ ,” said Geralt, dabbing at the bite with a clean rag, and Jaskier bit his tongue, and shut up.

Once it was bandaged, Jaskier laced up his shirt, carefully, trying not to move his shoulder. “How’s that?” said Geralt.

“Excruciating,” said Jaskier bitterly.

Geralt grunted, and turned away, evidently taking Jaskier’s attitude to mean that he was fine. Which he was, really. It wasn’t deep. It would heal. He hoped it wouldn’t scar too badly.

“Thank you,” he said. Geralt didn’t answer. “We, um. We do need to talk, though.”

“We don’t,” said Geralt.

“I need to ask something of you,” said Jaskier.

He’d been hoping to ease into this. But then he’d been hoping Geralt would be more amenable to talking it over. Things had seemed – hopeful, the night before. But it was as if while he’d slept a wall of ice had come down between them and now Geralt wouldn’t even look him in the eye. He was looking away as if Jaskier hurt to look at. As if he could, by acting like Jaskier didn’t exist, make it all go away.

But at that timid request a crack appeared in the ice. “What do you want?”

“I need you to promise me you won’t tell anyone – well, any of what I told you, last night.”

“Why should I do that?” said Geralt.

“Because I’m asking you too,” said Jaskier. “It’s not like it’d be hard. You’d just have to go on acting exactly the way you did before – and it’s not as if you _like_ talking to people –”

“No.”

“Geralt, this is serious,” said Jaskier. “Grant me this one request. Please?”

“I’ll tell whoever I want,” said Geralt.

And the way he said it was so cold but at the same time so – _blithe_ , like it wouldn’t matter who he told. Like the only thing at stake would be Jaskier’s reputation.

Something inside him snapped. “Geralt,” he said, struggling to compose him, “I – I don’t know how to put into words just how much _shit_ I am going to be in when the forces I answer to find out I told you – and yes, it is a matter of _when_ , not _if_ , because they _will_ find out and – and to be perfectly frank I don’t know what they’ll do with me because to the best of my knowledge this has never happened before but at the very least I won’t be allowed back on this mortal plane for a long time –” He took a breath, only as the words passed his lips fully realising what would happen. “Possibly ever,” he finished, voice wavering. “Are you listening to me? Geralt?”

Geralt wasn’t looking at him, but he was listening. Jaskier could feel him listening, and in spite of himself understanding.

“Geralt, please.” Jaskier clasped his hands together in supplication. “ _Please_. If you have any affection for me at all, please don’t make this any worse.”

Still Geralt wouldn’t look at him, but he had stopped what he was doing, gazing up at the trees.

“Geralt?” said Jaskier.

“Fine,” said Geralt. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

“Promise me,” said Jaskier. “Promise you won’t tell a soul?”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone what you truly are,” said Geralt.

Jaskier breathed out, the tightness in his chest easing. “Right, then,” he said. “That’s something. Thank you.”

Geralt mounted Roach.

“So, ah –”

“We’re not going to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay,” said Jaskier as Geralt rode away. “Okay, then.”

He trudged along behind Geralt – although trudged wasn’t the right word, as Geralt would keep riding ever-so-slightly faster than he could comfortably walk. He tried several times to speak, but each time Geralt acted as if he couldn’t hear him.

It wasn’t as if Geralt had never given him the silent treatment before. Once Geralt had given him the silent treatment for three whole days. But this was different. This time Geralt truly meant to never speak to him again.

If only he’d been a little smarter, or a little faster. All this might have been avoided. But there was no taking back the truth. All he could do was soldier bravely onward.

He tried sticking to safer topics. “It’s a beautiful morning.” There was no response, and Geralt’s mood was no less icy. “I always think mornings like this have a sort of poetry to them. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Still nothing. That was bad. Usually implying he might be going to sing got _some_ kind of reaction.

“I don’t suppose you know if this town has an inn?” he said. “It – it probably has an inn. If it’s big enough to be called a town. Well, I’ll be able to work something out, I’m sure. It’s not as if I’m completely penniless.” He sighed wearily. “I have enough to tide me over for a few days. Then it will be difficult, as I don’t think I’ll be playing the lute for a while.”

Geralt didn’t so much as twitch, his eyes firmly ahead.

“Look, Geralt,” he said, “I know you’re angry with me and all, but –”

“Do you?”

Jaskier floundered. He hadn’t expected _that_ of all things to break the silence. He had no idea how to answer, especially as he knew just exactly how angry Geralt was. His was a cold, creeping fury that Jaskier had seen in him only occasionally. “Yes.”

“Do you know why?” said Geralt.

Jaskier looked away. “Because you feel like I lied to you.”

“You did lie to me.”

“Alright,” said Jaskier. “Because I lied to you. Because you put your trust me in and you feel like I betrayed it.”

He felt a flare of _something_ in Geralt at that. Recognition, perhaps. Perhaps he hadn’t known how to articulate it himself.

“It’s as I said – I never lied to you about anything important.”

Geralt grunted. “What would you call _important?_ ”

“Lying about wanting to be your friend,” said Jaskier. “Lying about how I felt for you. Pretending to care about you when I didn’t. Lying about who I was.”

“I don’t know who you are,” said Geralt.

“Yes, you do.” Spreading his arms, he went on, “there’s no act! This is who I am! I’m Jaskier. I love music and I dress very well and I don’t know when to shut up.” Never had _that_ been a truer statement. “This is who I am. You know me. I’ve just, I – I’ve been other people as well. But hasn’t everyone?”

Geralt didn’t answer.

“It’s really nothing personal,” said Jaskier. “I pass as human. It’s what I’ve always done. I’ve had a lot of lives,” he added. “I’ve enjoyed this one a lot – for what it’s worth.”

At that, Geralt at last looked at him, glancing down at him with a curious expression on his face. Maybe it was the use of the past tense that had got his interest – a touch of his sympathy.

But he said, “it’s an act.”

“It isn’t,” said Jaskier.

“Whatever you are, you don’t have human feelings.”

He was beginning to understand why Geralt was so furious. Whatever thinking he had done in the night he’d taken the truth Jaskier had told him and built it up and up with his fears, and arrived at some awful conclusion Jaskier could only guess at. Some conclusion that made Jaskier into something unlike what he actually was – unlike _who_ he actually was.

“What would you know about it?” he said. “I’d have thought _you_ of all people would know better than to pass judgement on who can and can’t feel.”

“I don’t doubt you feel,” said Geralt.

“Then what are you getting at?” said Jaskier. “Hm?”

For long moments Geralt didn’t answer. “You’re right.”

“I am?” said Jaskier.

“I know Jaskier,” said Geralt. “The person I know wouldn’t meddle with people’s minds. I don’t know who you are.” 

_It’s an act_ , Geralt had said. He’d truly convinced himself Jaskier didn’t exist – that he was a character played by some entity he didn’t understand. _How could you think that,_ Jaskier wanted to say. _How could you think that for a moment?_

He thought of that awful resignation he’d felt the night before. _Of course,_ he imagined Geralt thinking. _Of course you aren’t real. Of course no-one but a monster would want to be with me._

“Now, see,” he managed, “I think you might have – grasped the wrong end of the stick, so to speak.”

“Have I?” said Geralt grimly.

“I don’t meddle,” said Jaskier. “There’s no meddling – well alright, there can be meddling, but not with people’s minds.”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“I don’t put anything in people’s minds that isn’t already there,” said Jaskier. “It just about – bringing things to the surface. Making people understand what it is that they feel. Finding a, a spark and building it into a fire. It’s a beautiful thing.”

“The town’s over that ridge,” said Geralt.

He wasn’t paying attention. Or, he was paying attention, but he wasn’t _listening._

Darting forward, Jaskier put his good hand on Roach’s bridle. “Let me show you.”

“Jaskier,” said Geralt in a warning tone.

“C’mon,” said Jaskier. “Give me a day. I’ll show you what I do.” Geralt didn’t answer, but he was considering it. Jaskier could feel him considering it. “It’s not bad,” he urged. “It’s not a bad thing. I swear it. Let me show you. C’mon.”

Geralt looked askance, still thinking about it. He wanted to say yes. Jaskier could feel it, that wanting.

At last he said, “one day.”

Jaskier breathed out. “That’s all I need,” he said. “Oh, you – you won’t regret this. I promise.”

“What makes you so sure there’s _sparks_ in this town?” said Geralt.

“Oh,” said Jaskier, rubbing the back of his head. “There’ll be sparks.”

*

The town was grey, and grimy, but sizeable enough to support not one but two taverns and more than big enough to have sparks. Big enough, even, to offer him some choice.

He stood in the marketplace, waiting for Geralt, feeling the tapestry of emotions all around him. Here and there he could feel emotions and people that tugged at him. Not compelling him, just tugging like a hand in his, a voice saying, _over here! Come and see!_

There were a lot of people in that town who were ready to fall in love. But which of them to show Geralt. He was still mulling it over when Geralt came back from the market stall, and said, “what now?”

“Hm?” said Jaskier, still lost in his musings, adrift in the feelings of those around him.

“I thought you were going to show me what you do.”

Jaskier considered for a last moment. He made his selection. “Let’s get lunch.”

It was a touch early for lunch, but a tavern was where he was being tugged, so a tavern was where he went, and obligingly Geralt followed. It wasn’t as if either of them had eaten that morning.

The landlady who served them their ale was a portly, round-faced little woman, all smiles even though he could feel how unnerved she was by Geralt. Putting people at ease where Geralt was concerned was second nature by that point, and he struck up a pleasant conversation about business and the weather, drawing Geralt into it as best he could.

“You live here alone?” Jaskier said.

“Just me and my daughter,” she said.

“Must get quiet.”

“Oh, no,” she said, laughing, and while she was chuckling to herself he gave her a touch of his magic and she laughed harder. “Never quiet around here.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Jaskier. 

“Will you be wanting something to eat?” she asked.

“What are you offering?”

“Best meat pie in town.” 

“Sounds perfect for us weary travellers,” said Jaskier. “Thank you kindly – though I think you’re wanted at the bar.”

She glanced over her shoulder, at the man waving for her attention. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, bustling away.

“Are you going to show me what it is you do?” said Geralt. “Are we going to sit here and drink the day away?”

“I don’t see why we can’t do both,” said Jaskier. “But as it happens, I’m already doing it.” With a nod of his head he indicated the landlady.

“Her?” Geralt twisted in his seat to look at her, laughing with the man at the bar. “She’s a bit old.”

“Oh, you’re never too old.” Jaskier shifted his chair around the table, settling himself at Geralt’s elbow. “Him. Over there.”

He nodded at a table across the room, where a group of old men were playing a game of dice, smoking their long pipes.

“Which one?” said Geralt.

“With the beard,” said Jaskier. “They were together once. A long time ago, before they were married. A youthful fling. But for some reason they drifted apart – they married others. They were both widowed and now they’re alone.”

“How do you know all that?” said Geralt.

“I can feel it.” He knew how to read loneliness, and desire, and all their subtleties. “There’s still something there, between them. That spark. It never died. They could be together again.”

“Where are you going with this?” Geralt asked.

“He’s about to make his move,” said Jaskier. “He just doesn’t know it yet.” Rising, he clapped Geralt on the shoulder. “Watch.”

Before Geralt could answer he ambled over to the dice table. “Morning, lads,” he said, leaning on the back of the bearded man’s chair. “Room for one more?”

The bearded man took his pipe from his mouth and regarded him. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I’m new in town,” said Jaskier, drawing up a chair. “What are the stakes?”

When he left the table, a laughing quarter-hour later and slightly poorer, their pie had arrived. “Oh, good,” he said, sinking into his seat. “I’m famished.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to show me,” said Geralt.

Jaskier spread his hands. “My work is done.”

“Looks to me like all you’ve done is get thrashed in a game of dice,” said Geralt, and Jaskier laughed.

“Wait for it,” he said.

He didn’t look back at the dice table, but he could feel the bearded man. He was looking over at the landlady – thinking of her – remembering all the reasons he’d once wanted her so badly. Geralt sat watching him, puzzled, watching as he lost interest in his dice, as his eyes were drawn again and again to the bar.

Before they had finished their lunch the bearded man rose from his seat and crossed the tavern, Geralt silently watching him all the while. He went to where the landlady stood cleaning the bar, and spoke to her, his voice too low for them to hear. Whatever he said made the landlady beam, glowing, bursting with happiness. 

Her hand reached across the bar, finding his.

“What did you do to them?” said Geralt.

“Just made them remember what they saw in each other,” said Jaskier. “They weren’t right for each other when they were young. They’re right for each other now. They can spend the last years of their lives together in newly wedded bliss. Isn’t that something?”

“It’s something,” said Geralt gravely.

He was puzzled – surprised. Whatever he’d imagined when Jaskier said _I make people fall in love_ it wasn’t this.

“They’re in love?” he said.

“They will be.” Jaskier could feel the attraction between them building, a warm glow of satisfaction in his chest.

“As simple as that?”

“Few things in life are simple,” said Jaskier. “If they’re good to each other. Maybe. I don’t need to control that.” He dug back into his pie.

Watching him, Geralt said, “Do you need to eat?”

“Strictly speaking, no,” said Jaskier. “But I do get hungry, so it’s a preference of mine.”

“Hm.” Geralt’s eyes strayed back to the old lovers, still lost in each other. “How could you tell?”

“Tell?” said Jaskier.

“What they felt for each other.”

“I told you,” said Jaskier. “I could feel it.”

“But how?” Geralt persisted.

“I can feel what everyone’s feeling all the time,” said Jaskier blithely. “That’s how I know you think I’m funny.”

“I don’t think you’re funny.”

“Geralt, darling, I can feel all the emotions you’re feeling whenever I’m around you,” said Jaskier. “You think I’m _very_ funny.”

Geralt looked away, thoroughly unamused and – Jaskier thought – not quite believing it. Not believing that something so private as what he felt inside could be seen so plainly. “You said you could only do two things.”

“Would you call that a third thing?” said Jaskier. “I’d say it’s an extension of the first thing.” He looked down at his plate. “I didn’t keep it from you on purpose. I just didn’t think of it.”

“Well, you can stop,” said Geralt.

“Stop what?” said Jaskier.

“Prying into my mind.” 

Resting his chin on his hands Jaskier said, “I can’t do that anymore than you can turn off your ears. Sorry. It’s just part of what I am.” Though he almost wished he could. The nauseous discomfort coming off Geralt was making his stomach roll. “I don’t want to keep anything from you if I don’t have to.”

“What about the things mortals aren’t supposed to know?” said Geralt, the merest hint of a tease in his voice.

“Honestly, we were a bit past that as soon as I told you what I was,” said Jaskier. “If there’s anything else you want to know, you can ask.”

“How many of the answers are going to be _beside the point?_ ” 

Jaskier spread his hands in surrender. “I’ll answer, if I can,” he said. “Promise.”

“Can you be killed?” said Geralt.

“Oof,” said Jaskier. “Starting with the big ones, are we?”

“Jaskier,” said Geralt. _Just answer the question._

“Well, it depends,” said Jaskier. “Do you mean, um. This body.” He motioned at himself. “Or me?”

“Either,” said Geralt. “Both.”

“This body has – all the usual human frailties,” said Jaskier. “For the most part.”

“Except the bite of a ghoul?” said Geralt.

“Well – well, see, technically anyone can be immune to poisons,” said Jaskier. “It’s just a matter of knowing how. And having enough control over your circulatory system.”

“Is that how you did it,” said Geralt, musing aloud. “What do you mean, _this body?_ Where did you get it?”

“Hard to explain,” said Jaskier. “It wasn’t anyone else’s before it was mine, if that’s what you’re driving at.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, satisfied, for evidently that _was_ what he was driving at. “What about you?”

“What about me?” said Jaskier.

“Can you die?”

Jaskier breathed out. “Oh, that’s a good question,” he said. “Probably. Under extreme circumstances.”

“What kind of circumstances?” said Geralt.

“I’m not sure,” said Jaskier. “I’ve never heard of it happening.”

“Hm.” Geralt glanced away for a moment, contemplating his next move. “There’s more of you?” 

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Couldn’t say,” said Jaskier, sipping ale. “On account of I genuinely don’t know.”

“Are there – others like you?” said Geralt.

It took Jaskier a moment to make sense of the question. “You mean other non-Cupid entities like me?” Geralt nodded. “Can we – can we, ah, not get into that, actually?”

“That’s not a no,” said Geralt.

“It’s not a yes either,” said Jaskier.

Geralt took a considering draught of ale. “How old are you?”

“Ah,” said Jaskier. “Well. That’s a tricky question.”

“Is it?” said Geralt, clearly not seeing anything tricky about it.

“It’s as I said,” said Jaskier. “I’ve had a lot of lives. So it depends rather on if you mean how long I’ve been Jaskier or how long –”

“How long you’ve been alive,” said Geralt. “Stop avoiding the question.”

“I’m not avoiding it,” said Jaskier. “I’m just trying to think how best to explain.” He rubbed a thoughtful hand over his mouth. “It’s just that, beings like myself, we don’t really think of time and age the way that mortals do. It doesn’t really make sense to think of yourself as having an age when your life doesn’t have a linear trajectory –”

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, again using that firm, warning tone. “How old are you?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Geralt, I don’t know,” Jaskier protested. “How long have people been falling in love?”

Geralt considered that. “Hm.”

“Yes, exactly,” said Jaskier. “That old, more or less.”

“But where did you come from?” Geralt persisted.

“Hard to explain,” said Jaskier.

“Did you come to this world from somewhere else?” said Geralt. “To make people –”

“Nooo, I think you have it back to front,” said Jaskier. “People started, well – being people, and falling in love – and then we happened.”

Geralt stared at him. “What?”

“Love happened,” said Jaskier, gesturing expansively, “and we were born out of it.”

“But _how?_ ”

“I really don’t know how to answer that,” Jaskier said.

“Am I not allowed to know?” said Geralt, almost glib.

“No – no, it’s – well, look, do you remember being born?” said Jaskier.

“No,” said Geralt.

“Of course you don’t, and neither do I,” said Jaskier.

Geralt nodded in understanding. “What _do_ you remember?”

He was softening. Jaskier could feel it. He was still angry but that dreadful, cold fury had subsided, slowly, by degrees. Now more than anything he was curious. Unabashedly fascinated by this area of the world he knew nothing about.

But that was a difficult question, and an intimate one. Thinking back, the first thing Jaskier remembered that he could pin down was taking his first coltish steps in his first body, walking in a forest, feeling the air on his new skin, touching the moss and the tree bark for the sake of knowing what they felt like, following the sounds of people and laughter and music.

But he’d existed before that. He’d been around, in the world, seeing people, feeling what they felt. There’d been a time, a time he remembered dimly, if he stretched his mind back far enough, when he’d been more of a feeling than a person himself.

“It was a very long time ago,” he said. “It’s, um – well. It’s hard to pin anything down. You know how it is, with first memories.”

Geralt nodded, understanding and yet at the same time not understanding at all. He studied Jaskier’s face. “I still don’t –” he said. “I’ve met fae creatures before. None of them seemed as human as you.”

“I am human, in a way,” said Jaskier. “I was born out of humanity.”

“Hm.”

“Do you believe me yet – that I’m harmless?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” said Geralt. “You make people – see that they love each other?”

“Broadly speaking, yes.”

“Can I ask,” said Geralt. “The banquet. Pavetta and Duny –”

“Ah – no,” said Jaskier. “I was there for Calanthe and Eist.”

“Hm,” said Geralt. “They’re a good match,” he conceded.

“They are, aren’t they?” said Jaskier. “Some of my best work. You’re welcome.”

“But not Yennefer and I?”

Jaskier pushed his food around his plate. “No. It was always going to get you hurt. I wouldn’t use my magic on you that way, because I’d never intentionally hurt you. And to be frank I wouldn’t use my magic on Yennefer at all because she’s a harpy and I don’t want her to be happy.”

Geralt snorted, mildly incredulous, for the first time since Jaskier’s admission the night before actually smiling.

“Now, look,” said Jaskier. “I am a being of love – and light – and benevolence – and I am also a spiteful prick sometimes. These things are _not_ mutually exclusive.”

“Evidently,” said Geralt.

“Quite,” said Jaskier. Geralt had loosened up still more, inside, perhaps finally letting himself believe Jaskier was truly who he claimed to be.

“I have more questions,” he said.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Jaskier.

“You said they might make you leave this world,” said Geralt. “Where would you go?”

“Ah,” said Jaskier. “Hm. No offence, but I don’t have the slightest idea how to explain the spaces we inhabit in language you’d understand.”

“Fair,” said Geralt. “Are they coming for you?”

“Oh,” said Jaskier with a vague wave of his hand. “I wouldn’t worry about that. They check in on me – once every ten to fifteen years, on average. We have some time before they notice.”

Geralt grunted. Then changing tack he said, “you fear death a lot for a man who can’t die.”

“Are you calling me a coward?” said Jaskier.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Geralt.

“True.” Jaskier laughed a little. “Alright. Point the first, I _do_ feel pain, so just because I can’t die for good doesn’t mean that the act of dying isn’t _deeply_ unpleasant. And point the second, if I get this body killed I will not be back for a _long_ time.”

“Why?” said Geralt. “Because you told me the truth?”

“Nooo,” said Jaskier, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Even before that I, um, wasn’t the most popular.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

“This is my third body this century,” said Jaskier. “It’s getting embarrassing.”

“How’d you lose the other two so fast?”

“You know me,” said Jaskier. “I get into scrapes.” Again Geralt snorted. “I was very firmly warned about the consequences of ruining another body this century, when I first started travelling with you.”

“But you stayed with me anyway,” said Geralt.

“More fool me.” Jaskier toyed with his pie crust. “I should – probably tell you.”

“Hm?”

“When I first started following you, I was going to find a match for you.”

Geralt digested that thought for a long, long moment. Then to Jaskier’s surprise he said, “why?”

“Why?” he said. “Because you were lonely.”

“I’m not lonely,” said Geralt.

“Yes, you are,” said Jaskier. “You’re lonely all the time. You’re so used to being lonely that you barely notice.”

“That’s not true.”

“Well,” said Jaskier, “we’ll agree to disagree.”

Geralt grunted, not happy to agree to disagree, but doing it anyway. “You never found a match for me?”

“Oh, I found plenty,” said Jaskier. “It’s just that none of them were ever good enough for you.”

“Is that so.” Geralt pushed his empty place away and began to count coins onto the table.

“Are you leaving?” said Jaskier.

“I need more supplies.” Geralt rose from his chair.

“Are you going to come back?” said Jaskier, twisting in his seat.

Geralt paused for a moment, gazing off at the door as if only that moment contemplating whether he wanted to see Jaskier again.

At length, he said, “I’ll meet you back here this evening.”

“Alright,” said Jaskier.

“We’re not finished.”

“Good,” said Jaskier as he walked away. “Good! I’ll see you this evening,” he called in Geralt’s wake.

He sat at the table, his heart fluttering, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Thank you everyone for reading and commenting!! Chapter 4 (the thrilling conclusion) (a.k.a. the E-rated chapter) up next Friday.
> 
> 2) What I'd been thinking of as Act Three of this fic dragged on a lot longer than I expected, so I had to break it into two chapters, which is why the ending of this part isn't quite as hm, punchy as the previous chapters. Sorry.
> 
> 3) I fully invented the 'silver makes you tell the truth' thing. I have no idea if that's a thing in Witcher canon or not, it worked for the scene I wanted and seemed to fit with the broader concept of silver being used to reveal Creatures. Anyway this is an AU so I can do what I want. Not sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How old are you? Thousands of years?”_   
>  _More than thousands, but Jaskier didn’t say so. “Something like that.”_   
>  _“And you’ve known me twenty,” said Geralt. “How long is that, to you?”_   
>  _“A lifetime,” said Jaskier._   
>  _“Is it?”_   
>  _“Yes.”_

It wasn’t as if Geralt was uncommonly reticent, when he came back to the inn. Geralt was predisposed to be quiet. Jaskier was used to filling the silence. But this was different. There was something new in the silence, a heaviness, a wealth of unspoken feelings.

He didn’t know what to do. He tip-toed around the room he’d bought for them, tidying away their bags, taking off his doublet, testing the bed. “Did you get your supplies?”

“Hm,” grunted Geralt, an affirmative. “Did you make anyone else fall in love?”

Jaskier laughed a little, then sobered. “I did, actually.” Jumping up from the bed he wandered about the room, lighting the candles.

He didn’t give any more details and Geralt didn’t press him. It wasn’t as if he had to justify himself. This was what he did. He hadn’t had anything better to do with his afternoon. He’d been restless. Itchy for a distraction.

Going to the washstand, he unwound the bandage from his hand, checking the burn. He washed his hands, and then his face.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt.

“Hm?” He reached for the towel.

“Is that your real name?”

Jaskier stood drying his hands.

“Do you have a true name?” said Geralt.

A droplet of water escaped down his wrist to his elbow. “Depends what you mean.”

“Just answer the question.”

Jaskier hung there for a moment, clutching the towel. He folded it, and setting it down turned around. “It depends what you mean,” he said. “I have another name – that _they_ call me. I wouldn’t consider it my _true name_ , whatever that means.”

“What is it?”

“What is a true name,” said Jaskier, “if not the name a person has chosen for themselves? To suit themselves? I’ve had a lot of names. I wouldn’t say any of them were false. I’m Jaskier. That’s the only name I want people to call me, at present.”

Geralt nodded, understanding or at the very least accepting that he didn’t understand. “How long have you been Jaskier?”

“About twenty years,” said Jaskier. “Give or take.”

Geralt looking askance for a moment, thinking that over, doing the maths.

“I’d only just got this body, when we met,” said Jaskier. “I hadn’t picked a name for it yet.”

Whether Geralt fully understood the implications of that – of how bound up he had become in Jaskier’s life, entirely without meaning to – Jaskier couldn’t say, but again he nodded. “Have you already been a bard?”

“I’ve been a lot of things.” Geralt grunted in acknowledgement, and turned away. Jaskier watched as he set his swords against the wall, movements careful, precise, tense. “You’re still upset with me.”

Geralt took off his gloves. “I still don’t understand what you are.”

“Either an anthropomorphic personification of a dynamic emotional experience,” said Jaskier, “or a primordial semi-divine entity. Depending on your point of view.”

Geralt processed that. He turned to face him. “What?”

“Well, you asked!” Throwing out one arm in an expansive gesture Jaskier said, “I’m love! I’m love that can talk.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I don’t know how else to explain.”

He was painfully aware of the chasm that had opened up between them that he’d been trying to ignore, the gulf of difference between their experiences. He didn’t know how to use human language to explain what he was. He’d never had to explain, before.

Geralt said, “can I ask you another question?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t have to answer – if you don’t want to.”

“Well, now you’re making me nervous,” said Jaskier, trying to keep his tone light.

But then Geralt said, “you said you loved me,” and Jaskier’s insides went heavy. “How did you mean it?”

Jaskier fidgeted with the smooth edge of the washstand behind him. He looked at his feet. “How did you think I meant it?”

“I don’t know,” said Geralt. “I don’t know what that means, for a creature like you.”

“I’m not a creature.” Clutching the washstand for support, he raised his head. “I meant I’m in love with you,” he said. “Romantically. With my whole heart. Head over heels in love, love.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, and Jaskier wanted, as he did now and then, to scream at him, _really? You have nothing to say? Nothing to say to that?_ “I tried to kiss you once.”

Jaskier’s mouth went dry. “I remember.” When he thought of that night he could still feel the ghost of Geralt’s touch against his face. He fought the urge to touch his cheek, to trace the path Geralt’s hand had taken.

“You told me no.”

“I didn’t know what I wanted from you then,” said Jaskier. “I still don’t, to be perfectly honest.” He swallowed. His throat was tight. “I didn’t realise I wanted you. Till that night.”

Geralt took a step closer to him. For a moment he felt the way he’d felt that other night, so many years ago, felt like a cornered animal – but not a frightened one. “If you can truly feel what I’m feeling then you must have known I still wanted you.”

“Yes,” Jaskier breathed. “I could feel it.” Turning he leaned heavily on the washstand and said to the basin, “you wanted me for years. And then you wanted her, and you stopped wanting me.”

Geralt was coming closer. Jaskier could hear the soft tread of his boots on the floorboards. “That’s not how it happened.”

He laughed a little. “You can’t lie to me about this. I know what you felt.”

Geralt’s hand touched his shoulder, slowly, gently squeezing. His fingers brushed the bare skin at the base of Jaskier’s neck, and a shiver went through him. “Perhaps you don’t know these things as well as you think.”

“Geralt –” He was going to protest that he knew _these things_ better than Geralt could imagine, but Geralt went on.

“I never stopped wanting you. I put what I felt for you out of my mind. I didn’t stop feeling it.”

And that wasn’t a lie. He could feel the truth of it in Geralt’s want for him, the warm haze of his attraction suffusing Jaskier’s body. There’d been an edge of it building since they’d come upstairs but now it was blazing.

But it wasn’t the _truth_ , either. He wet his lips. “You wanted her,” he said. “And when you couldn’t have her anymore you shoved me away and then came back for me when you got lonely.”

“That’s not how it was.”

“Wasn’t it?” said Jaskier.

“You said you forgave me.”

Steeling himself, he turned and looked Geralt in the eye. “Well, I lied,” he said. “It’s not alright and I don’t forgive you. And I suppose it wasn’t true when I said I never lied to you about anything important, because I lied about this.”

“You could have told me how you felt,” said Geralt, wounded, perhaps hurt that Jaskier hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him – perhaps hurt that he’d given Jaskier the impression he couldn’t tell. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know,” said Jaskier. “I don’t know! You wanted me back. I didn’t want to say anything that would make you not want me anymore.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jaskier.”

“Oh, give me some slack,” said Jaskier. “I’ve never been close enough to anyone to get hurt like that before. I don’t know what to do with these feelings. With any of – these feelings.” He motioned at himself, trying vainly to encompass it all, the storm of emotions that raged in his chest.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said Geralt.

“I know you didn’t.” Jaskier breathed out. “You lashed out at me like – someone punching a wall when they’re angry. And I think that’s worse, actually. That’s worse.”

“You’re right.” Jaskier met his eyes, startled. “I’m sorry,” Geralt said. “I’m sorry for the things I said. I’m sorry for forcing your tongue with the silver.”

“You didn’t force me,” Jaskier started, but Geralt kept talking.

“I’m truly sorry for putting a sword to your throat,” he said. “I shouldn’t have –” He broke Jaskier’s gaze. “You were right. I’ve known you long enough. I should have trusted you. I’m sorry – I’m sorry.”

And this time he meant it, in a way he hadn’t before. When he’d said he was sorry before he’d said it aloud for the same reason Jaskier had said _I forgive you_ – to make Jaskier come back to him. In the hope that things could go back to the way they’d been before.

Jaskier could feel how he meant it. Could feel the surge of guilt in him, even as no trace of it showed on his face. The storm raging inside him, trapped, with nowhere to go. 

“I know you are.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth. I never meant to hurt you, I just – I didn’t mean to get this close.”

“You were going to match me with someone and leave?” said Geralt, a teasing edge to his voice.

“Well – yes,” said Jaskier. “I just wanted to make you happy. That’s all I ever wanted.”

“And you think finding me a lover would have done that?”

“It would’ve helped.” But that wasn’t enough. He wasn’t explaining properly. “I saw you,” he said, “and I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone so lonely. You were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen and you were _so_ lonely and I just wanted to see you happy, and, and loved. More than anything I wanted you to be a loved.”

“Hm.” A brief stirring of amusement, like Jaskier had said something funny.

“What?”

“You felt all that and it took you years to think you might want me?”

“I –” Jaskier held up a finger. “Well. Um. Alright, coming from you of all people that’s – embarrassing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” said Geralt.

“You know what I mean,” said Jaskier. “And anyway if you don’t mind my saying, that’s beside the point.”

Stepping forward, Geralt pressed his hand to the wall behind Jaskier. His other hand rested on the edge of the washstand, their fingers just brushing, caging him in. Jaskier’s insides did a sort of flip. This was good. He wanted more.

“You knew I wanted you,” Geralt said. “Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted me back?”

“It’s complicated.” Jaskier wet his lips, wondering how best to explain, very aware of Geralt’s eyes flicking to his mouth. “Alright, it’s like this. I’m not supposed to want this.”

Geralt eased up, no longer looming over Jaskier quite so dramatically. “You’re – not allowed?”

“Nooo, I’m not explaining this right,” said Jaskier. “There’s no rule against it. Let me rephrase – I shouldn’t be _able_ to want this.”

“What do you mean?”

Jaskier waved a hand. “Trees don’t get up and start walking, fish don’t decide to grow wings and turn into birds, birds don’t grow scales and turn into fish, Cupids don’t – fall in love. It’s not in our nature. I shouldn’t be able to feel the way I do about you. I have no idea what’s happening to me.”

Geralt cocked his head to the side. “Are you sure you – feel that way about me?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” said Jaskier. “I know all these feelings, Geralt. I live in these feelings. I’ve just never had them for myself before. It’s as if I’ve – turned inside out. It’s confusing and a bit embarrassing, to be completely honest, and a little scary, but I like it. I think. I think I like it a lot. I don’t know what you did, to bring this out in me. But I like it.”

“You think I did something?”

“Oh – no,” said Jaskier. “No. Don’t get me wrong, you’re spectacular and all, but this is definitely a me problem. I suppose part of the reason I didn’t tell you is because I was afraid to. It just isn’t done, you know? It isn’t proper. And – well.” 

“And?” Geralt prompted.

“And,” said Jaskier, “I couldn’t tell you I wanted you without telling you what I am. It wouldn’t have been honest, otherwise.”

“I’m sorry to have forced it out of you,” said Geralt.

“It’s alright,” said Jaskier, for it was. He would worry about what Eros would do later. This was – good. Being able to talk honestly with Geralt felt _so_ good. “I understand why this upset you so much.”

“It was certainly a shock,” said Geralt gravely. Then he said, “Do you still want me?”

“Yes,” said Jaskier. “Of course.”

“Can you feel how I want you?” Jaskier bit his lip, and nodded. He wanted to close his eyes, and lose himself in that feeling. “How does it feel?”

“Good,” said Jaskier. “Feels good. Being wanted.”

“Hm.” Reaching out Geralt brushed Jaskier’s hair softly from his forehead. He cupped his cheek. Semi-consciously, Jaskier wet his lips.

Then Geralt leaned in to kiss him, and he turned his head sharply away. “Wait.”

Geralt’s hand fell from his cheek. Unease and grey misery crept in around the edges. “Do you – not want to?”

“No, I – we need to have a conversation.”

“What have we been doing all evening?” said Geralt, a smile playing about his lips.

“A different conversation,” said Jaskier. “An, awkward and somewhat embarrassing conversation – predominantly for me – well, actually, exclusively embarrassing for me.”

“Spit it out, Jaskier.”

“I’m getting there.” Jaskier looked up at the cracked ceiling, searching for inspiration. “The thing is. I, ah –” He steeled himself and looked Geralt in the eye. “I’ve never actually kissed anyone before.”

Geralt studied his face, looking, perhaps, for some sign that this was a joke. Finding nothing but earnestness, he stood up straighter and said, “what?”

Jaskier spread his hands. “There it is.”

“ _How?_ ” said Geralt. “You’ve –”

“Ah,” said Jaskier. “May I interrupt with the second part of this conversation?”

“Please.”

“I’ve,” Jaskier confessed, “never done anything, with anyone.”

Geralt stared at him. He cocked his head to the side, utterly baffled. “Excuse me.”

“You heard me.”

“But you told me you had,” said Geralt.

“Yes I did,” Jaskier agreed. “I lied.”

“Why would you lie about this?”

“I,” said Jaskier, “don’t know.”

“Jaskier.”

“Expediency,” Jaskier gabbled. “In part. You saw me talking to people, you thought I was flirting, I went with it because it wasn’t as if I could explain what I was doing, and then, well. Well, you know how I love embellishing a good story.”

Geralt grunted in soft agreement, for he did.

“I never anticipated for a moment it would be a problem,” said Jaskier. “If it’s any consolation, you’re not the first person I’ve told this particular lie to.”

“But _why?_ ” said Geralt.

“As I said,” said Jaskier. “Expediency. And my own amusement.” He flashed a nervous smile.

“So – do you?”

“Do I –” Jaskier motioned, trying to encapsulate the concept of the physical act of love in a vague hand gesture. “Never having tried I don’t actually know. But this body can do anything else a human’s can do, so I don’t see why not.” Geralt took a step away from him. “Hey, now!” Jaskier caught him by the wrist. “I’m game to try. If you’re still game, that is.”

“You’ve truly never done this before?” Geralt said.

“You really think I would tell a lie this embarrassing?” said Jaskier. “Are you? Still game?”

“Hm,” said Geralt. “I don’t know. It’s my first deflowering.”

His hand was on Jaskier’s hip, sliding gently around the curve of it, the pressure tantalising. Jaskier swallowed. “Ah, now.” He clutched at the washstand behind himself for support. “Do we have to use that word? I just – I don’t like the connotations, and it’s not as if I’m innocent. I do know how these things work, and I do mean _all_ of them, and I’ve been _involved_ lots of times –”

“Meaning?” said Geralt.

“Eh?” It was hard to think of anything but Geralt’s hand stroking circles on his hip. Gods but his hands were warm, and _big_.

“You’ve been _involved_ how?”

“When couples I match make love,” said Jaskier. “I’m involved. I’m, I’m present, just not in a physical sense.”

Geralt digested that morsel of new information. “What the fuck does that mean, Jaskier?”

“Means what it means.”

“You can’t just say things like that and not explain –”

“Explaining would take too long and we’re getting off-track,” said Jaskier. “My point is. What was my point?”

“Deflowering?”

“Yes. Yes!” said Jaskier. “If I never hear the word _deflowering_ pass your lips again, with respect to me, it’ll be too soon.”

“Fine,” Geralt said. “I won’t talk about deflowering you anymore.”

“Good,” said Jaskier. “Good. That’s –” Geralt’s hand slid down to his thigh and _squeezed_. “Oh my.”

“Nervous?” Geralt was smirking at him, his tone unfairly teasing.

“No,” Jaskier lied. There weren’t a lot of human things he hadn’t done, in his very, very long existence. This was one of the few lines he’d never crossed. He knew all the things it might involve and he knew how it all felt, from the outside, but he didn’t know what it would be like to experience it and that had his nerves jangling.

But moreso than anything he was filled with a tingly anticipation. A restlessness. A fluttery feeling in his stomach. He liked Geralt’s hands on him. He wanted more.

“I’m not nervous,” he said. “I’m just a bit – I’m not sure what the word is. I’ve never done it before and this wasn’t how I was expecting my evening to go, and –”

Taking Jaskier’s face in his hands, Geralt kissed him.

It was soft, and only lasted for a moment. Geralt’s lips were a touch rough.

“Oh,” said Jaskier.

Geralt stroked his face, running a thumb down his cheekbone. “Hm?”

“That’s nice.” In Geralt he felt an edge of trepidation. “What is it?”

Slowly, Geralt said, “I’ve never been someone’s first kiss before.”

“Well, I’d say you’re doing fine, if you’re worried.”

“I’m not worried,” said Geralt.

“Then c’mere and kiss me properly.” Jaskier put a hand on his waist, tugging him closer.

Geralt kissed him again, a fierce, open-mouthed kiss that knocked all the breath out of his lungs and every thought out of his head. For a moment he stood clutching the washstand, stunned, not sure what to do with his hands. He’d seen enough people kissing, over the centuries. He _really_ ought to know what he was supposed to do with his hands.

He gave into a yearning urge and looped his good arm around Geralt’s neck. Geralt had one hand on his hip, holding him in place, the other on his face, still stroking his cheek. His insides were filled with beating wings, his body going loose and shivery, and all of it felt – _so_ good.

He pressed his hand to the back of Geralt’s neck and caught his lower lip between his teeth, biting down just a little, and Geralt groaned aloud. His hand slid down, under Jaskier’s backside, lifting him up and onto the washstand, and the jug and bowl rattled behind him as it thunked against the wall but he scarcely heard it, too busy exploring Geralt’s shoulders, the shifting muscles in his back.

Geralt’s hand was on his thigh, pushing his legs apart in a way that sent a jolt of – _something_ though him – lust? Was that lust, he wondered hazily as he hooked one leg around Geralt. Oh, lust felt _glorious_ from the inside. He wanted more of it. He also wanted to breathe.

“Mm.” He tugged at the back of Geralt’s shirt, and getting the message Geralt drew back.

“Hm?”

“Just need a moment.” Jaskier breathed in, and let out a helpless, giddy laugh. “Oh, my,” he said, laughing harder, resting his forehead against Geralt’s.

“You like that?” Geralt’s hand ran down his back.

“That’s nice,” he said.

“You want more?”

“Gods, _yes_.”

Geralt grunted in agreement and adjusting his grip lifted Jaskier up off the washstand. He threw both arms around Geralt’s neck and clung on, his insides squirming with delight, his injured shoulder throbbing. “ _Ow_ – careful!”

“Sorry.” Geralt set him down on the edge of the bed. “Did I –” He reached for Jaskier’s shoulder. 

Jaskier batted him away. “Keep going. I’m fine.”

He leaned back, clutching at the blankets, watching as Geralt took his shirt off. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before, of course, but this was different. This was stripping with _intent_. He wet his lips.

“Lie down.” Geralt’s voice was very low.

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier breathed, scooting back on the bed, lazily arranging himself against the pillows.

He hadn’t given this particular situation a lot of thought. He’d known he wanted Geralt – had wanted him since the first moment he’d seen him – and he’d known that wanting extended into the realm of physical love, but it wasn’t something he’d really thought about in detail. Never having done it, it was difficult to picture; and he’d never for a moment thought he’d find himself in his current position, underneath Geralt.

He wasn’t remotely prepared for how it would _feel_. Geralt on top of him, pinning him to the bed, the weight and warmth of his body; the feel of Geralt’s wanting and lust all around him; the feel of his slow heartbeat picking up.

Geralt kissed him again, slower this time, tongue dipping in and out of his mouth in easy movements. He ran a hand down Geralt’s body, exploring his chest, the flat plane of his stomach, and Geralt grunted, kissing harder and thrusting his hips, his erection pressing firm and inviting against Jaskier’s thigh.

“ _Mm_.” Jaskier drew back, and smiled up at him. “Hello, there.”

“Are you sure about this?” said Geralt, a note of concern in his voice.

“Of course,” said Jaskier, stroking his face. “Why?”

“You’re not –” Geralt glanced down between their bodies, and it struck Jaskier just what he meant.

“Oh! Um – alright, hang on.” He pushed himself up on one elbow, half-sitting up. “Give me a moment. I’ve never done this before, I’m not sure how to make it go.”

“Jaskier, I’m not sure that’s how –”

Jaskier found the trick to it. “ _There_ we go.”

“Hm.” Geralt looked down. “That’s how it works.”

He’d been lusty before but abruptly the feeling intensified. His skin prickled. His lower regions pulsed and he had a nigh-overwhelming urge to reach down and cup himself, which he gave in to. “ _Oh_.”

“You’re telling me you’ve had a working cock for thousands of years and never once tried to use it?” 

“In my defence I haven’t always been in a body with a cock,” said Jaskier. “Anyway, I never wanted to before – congratulations on bringing out something new in me.” He lolled his head back against the pillow, squeezing himself through his breeches. “ _Gods_ above, that feels good. How do you people get – _anything_ done – when you could be doing _this_ all day –”

“Usually grow out of that stage after a couple of years.” Geralt pried Jaskier’s hand away from his cock, ignoring his sounds of protest, and replaced it with his own.

“Ohh _wow_ you have big hands,” said Jaskier, squirming. He could feel himself losing control over his body, his limbs, his hips, his tongue, his self-control slipping away from him in the most delicious way.

“You like that?”

“ _Very_ much.” He put his hand atop Geralt’s. “Harder – yes, like that.” His eyes fell shut.

This was going to be a voyage of self-discovery and no mistake. Distantly, he wondered if what he’d enjoy would vary from body to body – he’d have to experiment, in the event that he got a new one.

“Here.” Geralt unfastened his breeches.

“Oh, yes please –” Geralt’s hand closed around his cock, jerking him torturously slow, drawing back his foreskin and rubbing his thumb over the exposed head, and Jaskier shook, letting out an involuntary whimper. “ _Fuck_ that’s good.”

Geralt made a thoughtful sound.

“What?” Jaskier cupped his cheek.

“I thought a lot about what it would be like to bed you,” said Geralt. “This isn’t what I expected.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier. Well. It wasn’t as if he had anyone but himself to blame for that. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“You aren’t a disappointment.” Geralt kissed him again. “What do you want?”

“Not sure,” said Jaskier, breathless and wriggly. “More of this.”

“Hm.” Geralt kissed his cheek and said, “don’t go anywhere.”

“Where am I going to _go?_ ” He levered himself up into a sitting position and fixed Geralt’s back with a glower. He watched for a moment as Geralt rummaged through his bag, and then with a series of exasperated noises, to make it clear that he was _not_ happy at being left alone, he unlaced and stripped off his undershirt.

“Take your breeches off,” said Geralt as he climbed back onto the bed. Jaskier shoved his breeches and smallclothes down his hips and let Geralt tug them off, more than happy to do whatever Geralt wanted.

He lay back against the pillows, touching himself lazily, watching as Geralt undressed himself the rest of the way, watching as he opened the bottle of oil he’d brought and worked some between his fingers and his palm, warming it up.

Then Geralt wrapped his hand around Jaskier’s cock again and this time it was warm and slippery and his head thumped back against the pillows. “ _Oh_ –”

“Good?”

“Mm,” Jaskier sighed. “Oh, that feels lovely. Keep going.” He put his hand atop Geralt’s, intermingling their fingers, relishing the feel of Geralt’s skin against his, the feel of his own blood pumping.

Geralt’s free hand cupped his face, drawing him in for another kiss, and Jaskier clutched at him, at his shoulder, his upper arm. He wanted to touch _all_ of Geralt, but there was so much of him – so much to explore, and enjoy, he didn’t know where to start.

Grunting into his mouth, Geralt shifted and drew back. “Here.” Nudging Jaskier’s hand away Geralt applied more oil and then settled his body fully atop Jaskier’s. His cock, slippery with oil, rubbed against Jaskier’s thigh, and then Geralt reached down, closing his hand around both of them and working them together.

And that felt _exquisite_ , Geralt's cock slick and heavy against his own, radiating heat, moving in shallow, easy thrusts, not really enough – he could feel that it wasn’t _enough_ – but still wonderful. His cock was wet at the head and it began to drip onto his stomach and that was new, that was a new and glorious sensation, and when Geralt drew his hand up and ran his thumb over the tip he cried out aloud, oversensitive nerves catching fire.

“Look at you,” said Geralt. “Coming apart.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier agreed, breathless. His thighs had begun to tremble. Geralt closed his hand around both heads, squeezing them together, delicious and delectably intimate, and his hips moved of their own accord, jerking up into Geralt’s grip. “ _Fuck_. Harder.”

“Like this?”

“Yes,” said Jaskier, voice shaking. “Oh – _yes_.”

It was perfect – all of it was perfect, Geralt’s body atop his, his touch, the feel of his breath on his neck – the heady rush of Geralt’s enjoyment, dizzying. Noises were falling from his lips that he couldn’t hold in and his hips were pushing up, up into Geralt’s hand.

He twisted his fingers in Geralt’s hair and tugged him over, kissing him messily, and Geralt groaned into his mouth. Drawing back Jaskier said against his lips, “I think I’m going to –” and Geralt said, “yeah,” and his hand twisted in a new and fascinating way and Jaskier said, “ _fuck_ ,” his eyes falling closed.

His pulse pounded in his ears, his whole body thrumming, the release like nothing he’d experienced before. He said, “fuck – _Geralt_ –” clutching at him, clinging to his shoulders, and Geralt’s arm was around him holding him through it. For a moment he couldn’t think, his mind blissfully clear of everything but the rush of pleasure and Geralt, all around him, scent and body and feeling surrounding him –

Then it was as if every joint in his body turned to liquid. He slumped down on the bed, arms slipping from Geralt’s back, sticky and satisfied. “Oh _my_ ,” he said faintly. Head lolling back against the pillows, he let out a laugh of delight and exhilaration.

“Good?”

Jaskier turned his head to look Geralt in the eye, and at the sight of him forgot whatever answer he’d been going to give. “You’re _beautiful_.”

“Yeah,” said Geralt, voice unsteady, and burying his face in Jaskier’s neck he breathed deep.

His whole body went tense, the muscles of his arms and shoulders hard as steel beneath Jaskier’s hands, and he spilled between them, shuddering, breathed hard. Slowly, by degrees, he went lax and loose and heavy.

Jaskier ran a hand down his slick back, tracing the dip of his spine. “Good?” Though he didn’t really need to ask. Geralt radiated contentment and warmth, his mind golden with it. Jaskier wasn’t sure he’d ever felt him quite so at ease.

Geralt breathed in, and grunted in assent.

“I take it this means you don’t want to part ways after all,” said Jaskier, and Geralt snorted.

“Don’t push your luck.”

Laughing, Jaskier said, “you’re a giant brute, you know that?” He shoved at Geralt’s shoulder. “Actually though, I need to breathe.”

With a soft grunt, Geralt shifted off him. He gazed up at the ceiling, and breathed, acutely aware of Geralt beside him, as far away as the too-narrow bed would allow. Their knees were brushing together.

As good as it felt, lying there boneless with satisfaction, he was _very_ sticky. Pushing himself up on his good elbow, he ran his fingers through the mess on his stomach, inspecting. With a sigh he sat up fully and swinging his legs off the bed went to the washstand. “Are we going to do this again?” He wet the towel.

“Do you want to?” asked Geralt.

“Yes,” said Jaskier. “I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this for so long.”

“You could have just told me you wanted to.”

He hadn’t meant it as a dig at Geralt – not at all – but it wasn’t sure how to say so. “I’m sorry for letting you think I wasn’t interested.”

“Hm,” grunted Geralt. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

Setting down the towel, Jaskier looked at him, concerned. “You’ve asked me a lot of _personal questions_ today. How personal are you about to get?” Geralt shrugged. “Alright. Out with it.”

“Have you spent a lot of time in a body without a cock?”

The question was so unexpected that Jaskier laugh a little. “Not as much as I’ve spent with one. Why?”

“You prefer it, then?”

“Oh, most definitely.” Jaskier ambled back to the bed. “It makes so many things – _so_ much easier.”

“Such as?”

“Travelling alone.” He settled down on the bed beside Geralt. “Getting people to listen to you when you talk. Having your artistic works taken seriously. That sort of thing.”

“That the only reason you have a preference?”

“Hm?”

“Expediency.”

Jaskier breathed out. “I suppose so,” he said. “Never really thought about it before. Why, does it matter?”

“No.” Geralt’s hand lay on his shoulder, running down his shoulder blade to splay across his back. “I still don’t understand what you are.”

“No?” Jaskier turned to look at him fully, resting his chin upon his hand.

“I trust that you aren’t anything dangerous.”

“I’m glad,” said Jaskier.

“You dealt with that ghoul handily enough, though,” said Geralt. “I saw the body.”

“Well – well, that really was mostly luck,” said Jaskier.

Geralt grunted, not quite believing it, which was fair enough. “You said you’d lived a lot of lives.”

“Mmm,” Jaskier agreed.

“Were you a fighter in any of them?”

“No.” There weren’t a lot of things he’d never been, over the centuries; but that was one of them. “I know how to defend myself.”

“But you haven’t always been a bard.” Geralt’s hand traced a slow path over his shoulder blades.

Sighing, Jaskier shifted to face the far wall. “As I said – I’ve been a lot of things. But music’s what I tend to circle back to.”

“Why?” said Geralt.

“Why does anyone?” said Jaskier. 

Geralt hummed in understanding. “I wish you’d told me.”

And there was an edge of betrayal in his voice, in his heart, that made Jaskier’s stomach drop. “I couldn’t tell you.”

Geralt’s hand made another slow pass down his back. “You were right,” he said. “I trusted you. I hadn’t trusted anyone like that in a long time.”

Jaskier’s stomach sank still further. “Geralt –”

“I thought I knew you.”

Looking over his shoulder Jaskier said, “you _do_ know me.”

“You couldn’t tell me the whole truth and you still can’t,” said Geralt. “I understand that much. But you didn’t have to make me think you were human.”

 _It’s what I do_ , Jaskier wanted to say. But he couldn’t say _that_. He turned his face away. “What was I supposed to tell you? It’s the whole truth or nothing. Isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” said Geralt, agreeing in spite of himself. That sense of betrayal hadn’t gone away.

“I suppose the truth is,” said Jaskier, “I’ve never been close enough to anyone for it to matter before.”

“You haven’t?”

“I never expected to be with you as long as this.” Jaskier shifted on the bed. “I never expected – any of this.”

“You spent your time alone, then? Before we met?”

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve had mortal friends before,” he said. “Just not like this. I have friends like me, we cross paths quite often – relatively speaking, I mean. We live on a very different scale than you.”

“That sounds lonely,” said Geralt.

 _Was_ it? “No,” he said, musing aloud. “I don’t know if I get lonely, like that. You were right,” he said over his shoulder. “About some things. I don’t feel everything the way a mortal would. I don’t really get lonely. Don’t get me wrong, though. I like it – this closeness.” Turning away he said half to himself, “I’ll miss it when it’s gone.”

Geralt’s hand stilled on his back.

“Sorry,” said Jaskier. “I shouldn’t have –”

“Don’t be,” said Geralt. “It’s the truth.”

Something new had joined that feeling of betrayal, something Jaskier liked even less. An uneasy feeling, almost like grief. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Geralt’s hand moved again, running up and down Jaskier’s back, faster, more insistent.

“No, it’s bothering you,” said Jaskier. “I can feel it.”

“How old are you? Thousands of years?”

More than thousands, but Jaskier didn’t say so. “Something like that.”

“And you’ve known me twenty,” said Geralt. “How long is that, to you?”

“A lifetime,” said Jaskier.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

He had lived so many lives, and Geralt had been there for almost all of this one. Geralt had been there as long as he’d been Jaskier. Geralt was everything, to him.

He’d had mortal friends before – had them, and lost them. It was always sad, but it didn’t always hurt. To lose a friend to old age was like the changing of the seasons from summer to autumn to winter – sad, but part of the natural order of things. Not a true ending. No-one was ever truly gone; their mark on the world remained.

To lose a friend before their time hurt. Even many, many centuries later, thinking back on those friends hurt. And more likely than not Geralt would be taken before his time. He’d die fighting. Jaskier didn’t know what would happen to him, when Geralt was gone. He didn’t think he’d be Jaskier anymore.

Behind him, his hand slowing in its gentle movements, Geralt hummed to himself. He said, “can I see them again?”

“What, now?” said Jaskier over his shoulder. “Here?”

“Yeah.”

“Someone might come in,” said Jaskier, half-teasing.

“No-one’s going to come in,” said Geralt. “There’s a latch on the door.”

Jaskier regarded him. His face was very grave. This was important to him, and Jaskier understood why, even if he couldn’t quite put it into words.

“Alright,” he said. “But it’s on _your_ head if someone sees.”

Turning away, he sighed, and shifted his shoulders, readying himself. He spread his wings.

He spread them a touch too forcefully; one of them hit something behind him, and he heard a soft _oof_. “Sorry,” he said. “Not used to doing this indoors.” He drew them in closer to his body, settling them well away from Geralt’s face.

He was acutely aware that he was being studied, in a way that he hadn’t ever been studied before, Geralt inspecting his wings with his characteristic furious intensity. A handful of mortals had seen them. None of them had ever got to _inspect_.

There was a thrill to it – to letting Geralt look at him, like this, to having his wings out in the open in a building where anyone might stumble in on them, latch or no latch.

Geralt laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Can I – touch?”

“Of course.” Jaskier rolled his shoulders, giving his wings an encouraging shake.

Geralt’s hand slid down to his shoulder blade, to the place where wing met back. His fingers traced the join, exploring – down, and then beneath. Jaskier shivered, biting his lip.

“No?” Geralt withdrew his hand.

“It’s fine.” Jaskier scooted back towards him. “Just – sensitive.” Tentative, Geralt touched him there again, fingers moving from skin to downy feathers.

“May I keep going?” he said. Jaskier murmured an assent. 

Geralt’s hand ran along the upper edge of his wing, over the curve of the bone. Then down, across his wing feathers, running his fingers through them. “Soft,” he said, half to himself.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier. Geralt repeated the motion, and again he shivered.

“Can you fly with them?”

“Mm,” said Jaskier. “Yes.”

“They don’t look big enough.”

Twisting, Jaskier said over his shoulder, “it’s magic, Geralt my darling, they don’t need to be big enough.”

“If it’s magic then why do you need the wings?”

Laughing, Jaskier turned away. “You’re over-thinking this.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, put out.

He didn’t like not understanding him – or to be more specific, he didn’t like not understanding things like Jaskier. He wasn’t used to it at the best of times. Coming across a being – an entire class of beings – that he knew nothing about had set him off-kilter, and Jaskier wasn’t sure how to help. He didn’t know how to explain himself any more clearly.

“That day, when I fought the wyvern,” said Geralt. “That’s how you survived.”

“You remember that?” said Jaskier, mildly surprised. Geralt hadn’t brought it up once.

“It’s been bothering me for years,” said Geralt gravely, and Jaskier laughed again. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” said Jaskier. “Little bit. C’mon.”

“I thought you put your life on the line for me,” said Geralt. “But you didn’t. Did you?”

“I suppose not.”

“Would you have done it if you were mortal?”

Jaskier breathed out, and chose his words carefully. “I’ve never been mortal,” he said. “I don’t know what I would have done if I was mortal. But I know I’d put my life on the line for you in a heartbeat, if it ever came up.”

“Hm.” Geralt was still uncomfortable, but in a different direction. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“If it ever comes up,” said Geralt. “Don’t.”

He said it so firmly, like he was delivering an order.

Rolling his shoulders, Jaskier withdrew his wings, and behind him Geralt made a soft sound as the feathers vanished from beneath his fingers. He touched Jaskier’s back, running a hand over his shoulder blades, the places where his wings had so recently been.

“Could the djinn have killed you?” 

“You mean this body or me?”

“Both,” said Geralt.

“This body, yes,” said Jaskier. “And in a particularly unpleasant way. But it wouldn’t have killed me, no.”

“Could it have, though?”

Jaskier tried to get his head around the question. “Do you mean,” he said, “if someone wished for a djinn to kill me, would it work?” Geralt grunted. “I have no idea, but I wouldn’t want to try it.

Geralt’s hand made another slow pass over his shoulder blades. “Can I ask you another question?”

Which meant, Jaskier supposed, that he wanted to ask a difficult one, or a personal one. “Of course.”

“What I feel for Yennefer –” Geralt didn’t finish the thought.

“What about it?” said Jaskier over his shoulder.

“Is it real? Or is it –”

“It’s real.”

“And what she feels for me?”

Jaskier looked at the wall. “Real.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain.”

Geralt was quiet for a moment. “What does she feel for me?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” said Jaskier to the wall.

“Why not?”

“Just seems,” said Jaskier, “invasive. Telling you what’s in her heart.”

“That’s fair,” said Geralt. “But you know what’s in her heart?”

“Yes,” said Jaskier. “I can’t help knowing any more than I can help knowing the colour of her eyes.”

“You knew how it was going to end – between us.”

“Not the specifics.”

“You could have told me,” said Geralt. “Or were you not allowed to?”

“I think you’ll find I _did_ tell you,” said Jaskier. “Several times I told you you were going to get hurt, and you didn’t listen.”

Geralt grunted as he digested that – as he reflected, and admitted to himself that Jaskier was right. “I thought you just didn’t like Yennefer.”

“I mean, I don’t,” said Jaskier. “Or – I don’t know.”

“Or what?” Geralt’s hand drifted to his chest, tugging him gently back, and he let himself be tugged into Geralt’s arms, resting his head on his shoulder.

“I have no idea whether I like Yennefer or not,” Jaskier confessed. “I’ve never been jealous before. I don’t know how to process any of it.”

“Mm.” Geralt’s hand traced a slow path down his chest.

“Does it get easier?”

“A bit,” said Geralt. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Bringing her up.”

“Don’t be,” said Jaskier. “You feel how you feel. You don’t just stop loving somebody.”

Lying there, safe in Geralt’s arms, Geralt’s hands gentling him, Geralt’s breath on his skin, he came to a number of slow realisations, understanding settling over him like falling leaves.

Firstly, that Geralt _did_ love Yennefer, just as fiercely as he had before the mountain. He’d known it was so but it had been easy to pretend otherwise, for Geralt was good at hiding his feelings and he’d hidden it well. But when he’d asked about Yennefer it had been impossible to miss. Geralt was in love with her, and probably would be for the rest of his life.

Secondly, that he _wanted_ this; wanted to he held and gentled like this, wanted Geralt’s body beside his own, Geralt’s heart open to him, every night for the rest of eternity. He wanted to love Geralt, and he wanted Geralt to love him.

And lastly, that he couldn’t have this. He couldn’t have Geralt – couldn’t have him for the rest of his natural life, let alone for eternity, for ever so many reasons. Try as he might he could never fully occupy Geralt’s world and Geralt could never occupy his.

It was just as well he probably wouldn’t have a human heart for much longer. He didn’t want to know how it would feel when it broke.

Geralt’s arms tightened around him. “You’ve gone quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Cupid things,” said Jaskier absently.

Geralt laughed a little at that, and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “What am I going to do with you.”

So they couldn’t have eternity, he reasoned. They could have this, for a little while. They could get to know each other all over again. They could have so many beautiful, exciting new experiences, the two of them. So what if it could only be for a little while.

If he had to leave earth forever he was having a love affair of his own first if it killed him.

“You can keep me,” he said, “if you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading & commenting! <3 <3
> 
> I do intend to make this a series, with a more conclusive (and happier) ending & future installments featuring the promised [Yenn & Cupid!Jaskier interaction](https://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/611154541182844928/altalemur-penny-anna-penny-anna) but until such a time as I've actually written something I can make no promises.
> 
> Answers to some questions you may have about this fic:
> 
> 1) Eros is 'Eros' in name only... to be quite honest I mainly used the name because I needed a simple way to convey 'boss Cupid'. In the event that I write more of this series I do intend to get more into how there came to be a Boss Cupid.
> 
> 2) Jaskier 'sobered up' in chapter one using the same process he used to get rid of the ghoul venom, it just works a bit differently depending on what substance it's trying to get rid of and how long it's been in his body.
> 
> 3) Geralt is correct in this chapter when he suggests that Jaskier might not be as good at reading emotions as he thinks he is... so take everything Jaskier has observed about Geralt's emotional state in this fic with a pinch of salt lol.
> 
> 4) The account Jaskier gives of how his own powers work in this fic is also not 100% accurate as it is theoretically possible for him to make any two people become suddenly infatuated with each other. However he also was not strictly lying, as he (and Cupids in general) would not do that as a matter of principle. 
> 
> 5) For anyone who does not follow me on tumblr ([@penny-anna](https://penny-anna.tumblr.com/)): Valdo Marx is a Cupid. Jaskier & Valdo have hated each other for approx. 200,000 slutty, slutty years.
> 
> 6) Other beings in the same class as Cupids include [Psychopomps](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychopomp). Destiny also has 'agents' but I don't think there's a snappy name for that.
> 
> & Finally if you enjoyed this fic, I'd like to rec a couple of other non-human!Jaskier fics I enjoyed while writing it:
> 
> [Kingdoms Come and Kingdoms Go, Rivers Run and Rivers Flow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956247/chapters/54874804): river god!Jaskier. This is just *chef's kiss* exactly what you want out of an immortal Jaskier story! Love the worldbuilding, love how it's worked into canon, hate that I didn't think of some of the ideas in it first.
> 
> [Not Quite Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23203594/chapters/55547605): (sort of) demon!Jaskier fic. Came across it early in writing this one and was like 'oh this has the same vibe as my fic but also... the exact opposite vibe.' and! it's so good! and so creative! it scares me a bit. I love it.


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